


Inbound Flight: Out of Darkness

by QueenieWithABeenie



Series: Inbound Flight [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Use of the Force (Star Wars), Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien/Human Relationships, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Chiss Ascendancy (Star Wars), Cipher Nine (Star Wars), Crack-adjacent shipping, Disabled Character, Eli has Big Dad Energy, Eli is doing his best, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/No Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Sexual Content, Implied past thrass/formbi, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, LGBT characters, M/M, Mandos being mandos, Most people live, Mutual Pining, Neopronouns, Nightshrike (Star Wars), No Beta We Die Like Clones, Original Character(s), Sabine does not like the Chiss, So did Che'ri, Thrantovember (Star Wars), Wutroow got her promotions, and the chiss do not like Sabine, angst with a thin veneer of plot, ar'alani takes no shit, background ronbi, binesu esethimba, continuations of tumblr headcannons, flagrant abuse of force lore, mlm, the sequels belong to legends now, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 68,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenieWithABeenie/pseuds/QueenieWithABeenie
Summary: “Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like.”― Lemony SnicketWhat do three Jedi, two Mandalorians, and the Empire have in common?Unfortunately, the correct answer is Thrawn.
Relationships: Ar'alani/Karyn Faro, Formbi | Chaf'orm'bintrano/Brierly Ronan, Thrass | Mitth'ras'safis & Original Female Character(s), Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto
Series: Inbound Flight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056806
Comments: 241
Kudos: 72





	1. Prologue

**Din isn’t sure what to make of the cantina.**

It’s not their usual brand of just-on-the-edge-of-chaos, it’s downright _unruly_. But somehow it’s contained, and although no blasters are raised at him, the aura of the place almost _tenses_ at his presence. It is instinct that curls his fingers into the strap of the Child’s carrier and holds him a little closer to his chest. They must make quite the sight, Din thinks. The carrier is a new addition, Bo-Katan made sure he was better-equipped to deal with a child before sending him on his merry way with only a name and a vague trace of resentment in her voice. He’d expected to have a great deal more trouble finding the owner of the name, although it seemed not a soul in the galaxy had been spared the antics and apathy of this pirate in particular.

_Hondo Onaka._

Din had considered the name every time it came up, wondering if _he himself_ had ever been victimized. It was quite possible, given the sheer destruction that seemed to follow the pirate’s name, that he’d at least suffered indirectly.

A woman with far too many eyes and no nose is behind the center bar, flicking her wrists to and fro as she juggles bottles of liquor and fills the orders being thrown her way with a smile that Din assumed was _cheerful_. At least she was enjoying herself, he thought. That was a good sign. Down the counter, there’s another server with not nearly as much enthusiasm for the job. She’s almost more approachable in that respect.

Din looks to the Child, his _son_ , and offers a shrug. It was the best he could do from under his helm. The kid had grown far past the age of _bone broth_ or soup as a whole... He’d have to ask about something a little more substantial, lest the kid go after someone’s pet cat again. Maybe a hearty stew?

The bartender looks almost distant, but at least she is human and Din can read her expressions a bit better -his social skills still need a great deal of work, he’s been told. Her eyes turn to them, widening momentarily before she is drawn back to the present, and the ghost of recognition settling against her splotchy skin.

“Munit cuyir bic sa Ni haa'taylir gar adate olar,” she speaks with a hiss. Perhaps she is not human after all. “Nor'be buy’ce, ibac cuyir.”

Din _almost_ draws back, but they are far enough into the reaches of Wild Space now that Mando’a might’ve established a presence as a trade language as coverts were established away from the Empire.

He lifts a brow. “Vaabir gar jorhaa'ir Ika'dyc? ra cuyir mando’a te joha rud olar?”

“We speak Basic, yes.” Again, it comes out with a hiss and a barely there twang that Din can’t quite place. “Will you be ordering, or do you only seek information?”

“Both,” Din huffs out. The little squeaks from the carrier are persuasive in the least. “Something with meat and the whereabouts of Hondo Onaka.”

The bartenders eyes darken, and it is only now that he sees their pigment. She is certainly not human. Not fully. Her lips part to speak, but she is cut off as a flagon is slammed down on the bartop dangerously close to Din’s hand.

“And who’s asking, huh? Surely if you’re looking you’d know where to find me!”

Again, he holds the child a little closer. _One of these days, he needs to pick a name_.

Din sets his jaw stiffly. “Ahsoka Tano sent me,” he says evenly, “She said you might know a thing or two about the Jedi.”

~ * ~

Vurawn watches carefully as the pirate’s curiosity takes over and he settles himself beside the Mandalorian at the bar. There is something strange about the warrior, a err of hesitance and uncertainty, perhaps. He presumes it is a human male, if the stature and heat it gives off are in any way telling. The Mandalorian holds something to his chest, and even from behind Vurawn can tell it is held with great care an protection. he had not seen the man enter, but he had been made well aware of his presence once Onaka had lifted his focus from their game. Odd, Vurawn thought. Onaka had been so focused on his losing streak- why tear his attention away now?

_The musculature of Onaka’s shoulders and neck tense, his body going stiff for the briefest of moments._

He cannot hear their conversation, but Vurawn assumes something quite personal has been said. Even the bartender, Noonien, looks uncomfortable.

She hands a small dish of something to the Mandalorian with great hesitance, though he makes no move to eat it. Perhaps...

No. Vurawn shook his head. Surely the Mandalorian is not carrying a _child_ in that sack. It makes little sense, and would make the Mandalorian an irresponsible parent to bring a child _here_ , of all places. But then again, Mandalorians were raised from birth to be warriors, to hold their own. Or perhaps the child was nonhuman and simply grew at a different rate?

His eyes settle on the cocktail he’d been nursing for all of three hours and made little progress on. Noonien had never been to Csilla, nor any Ascendancy world, but she’d made a valiant effort to recreate the drink and come shockingly close. The art of drink mixing was certainly one Vurawn had never considered, but he’d taken an interest in recent months. The establishment owner, whose name Vurawn still struggled to grasp, had decidedly taken him under her wing. Thus far, he could toss a bottle and catch it while pouring the liquid and spin the stir sticks between his fingers, but that was all. He lacked her grace and coordination.

Vurawn allows himself to rest against the booth and takes another measly sip from his drink, eyes still pinned on the bar. The tension in Onaka’s posture is all but gone and he openly claps a hand against the Mandalorian’s pauldron. An agreement of sorts must’ve been reached, Vurawn assumes, and braces himself for the inevitable introduction. This, among a long list of things, is something he has yet to grow accustomed to. He’s never been one to be the socialite, but Onaka is a perpetual extrovert with an alarming knack for getting into people’s business, and Vurawn is simply drug along for the ride.

He really does try to tune out Onaka’s obnoxious flamboyancy as he presents the Mandalorian. And granted, his suspicions of improper parenting are confirmed, the child really is adorable.Vurawn dared to crack a small smile in its direction. It’s heat signature is strange, and its eyes unsettling. Far too wide and far too wise for a creature so small.

“…and this fine man calls himself _Kivu’raw’nuru_.” Vurawn is yanked sharply out of his thoughts as Onaka claps his shoulder. For the sake of peace, he lets it happen. “Quite the mouthful, in my ever-humble opinion.”

The Mandalorian nods at him, and Vurawn almost regrets spacing out. He’d missed the man’s name, if he had one.

“Pleasure.” The Mandalorian’s voice is tense and tight, drawn like a bowstring ready to fire.“Your friend here tells me you’re in contact with a…”

_He takes pause, the musculature of his neck tightening. He searches for the correct word, Vurawn thinks. Perhaps he is not familiar with the Jedi and their ways. He himself was much the same, once._

“Padawan?” Vurawn supplies with an uptick at the end of the word. It is a question as much as it is a statement.

Vurawn is sure that the Mandalorian makes a curious face. “Yes.”

_His voice holds hesitance, uncertainty. He does not know the word…_

“We were sent by Ashoka Tano. She… has the gift, but refused to teach the child the ways of the Jedi. She said your friend might know of someone.”

The Mandalorian draws in a breath, likely through his nose, but finally takes a seat across from Onaka and Vurawn.

“Indeed we do,” the Chiss dips his head and reaches for his drink. “Padawan Bridger has been an… an associate of mine for some time now.”

“Would he be willing to help us?”

At this, Vurawn settles back again and takes a pensive drink. “Perhaps.” There is a spell of silence, and he’s sure he can see Onaka re-stacking the deck in his favor. He’ll still lose, no matter what he tries. Vurawn will see to that personally. “You will need to present the proposal to him yourself, Mandalorian. I do not speak for anyone other than myself.”

“I’m sure,” The Mandalorian huffs.

The child has left his father’s -no, his _caretaker’s_ -arms and has made his way to Vurawn. At first, the child had scarcely spared him a glance. Now it was on his lap, peering up at him with curious eyes, and Vurawn was at a complete loss. He’d never dealt with _infants_. Only school-aged children. Looking back, Un’hee was perhaps the youngest person he’d ever spoken to and she had been _eight_ when they last spoke.

_The child fists its tiny hands into his tunic. He seems at the age where everything is a question that demands an answer. Large eyes are filled with wonder. This is childhood at its purest essence._

“Does your child have a name, Mandalorian?” Vurawn tears his eyes from the child and looks to the Mandalorian, who has become rigid as a board. Had he struck a nerve?  
 _His helm tips to the left, his facial heat obscured. Reading his expressions will be difficult, at best. Although, he carries himself with great apprehension and a noticeable lack of trust in this moment, a hand rested surely atop his blaster, his resolve etched in stone._

“No,” the Mandalorian says, softer than anticipated. “Not one that I am aware of.”

At this, Vurawn’s brows fold. He considers his next words with great, great care. “The code of the Mandalorians speaks of names as being of great importance. Perhaps it is for the good of you both that he -or she, I suppose- is given a name soon.”

_Onaka is suspiciously silent during the exchange. It is out of character for him to not have an opinion._

The Mandalorian says nothing, mirroring Onaka’s tension.

It is then that Onaka breaks into the swamp of tension that has risen in the booth with a sharp rap of knuckles against the table. The Mandalorian almost jumps.

“Forgive me for forgetting my manners!” He exclaims. “You must be tired and worn out- piloting that antique rust pile all the way out here must’ve taken a toll.”

_He stands, brimming with false confidence. His shoulders are drawn too far back for it to be anything else._

“Yes,” Vurawn rises to join him, the Child still nestled safely in his arms. “The hour grows late and children require a great deal of rest after what is likely to have been a- a _stressful_ journey.” He catches the soft squeak of the Mandalorian’s glove against the grip of his blaster.

He is not a threat.

Vurawn peers down at the infant. “He seems quite content as he is. I shall carry him, so that his sleep is not disturbed.” He thinks the Mandalorian makes a face, but he says nothing. Eye contact is impossible to discern visually, but the feeling of being watched is hardly a conscious awareness. Vurawn makes note of this and holds the child close to his chest, knowing that it will seek warmth in its slumber. He has worked with enough sleepy Sky-Walkers to know this and act on it without second thought. Indeed the Chiss is proven correct when the Child squeaks and coos through his dreams and his little hands curl into Vurawn’s shirt.

_Something deep in his chest warms, something soft and comfortable, but he is unable to think of suitable words to describe it. Not in Basic. Perhaps he could in his own tongue, but that is not an option as of yet. These people know of him, but they do not know him._

And yet…

The Mandalorian is caught in conversation with Onaka, the pair already drawing up a plan to secure lodging. Onaka must’ve spoken something to Vurawn’s competency, for the Mandalorian now spares only a rare glance at the Chiss and the Child.

Vurawn holds the Child at his shoulder now, and leans in a little to speak. “Buscah, vir in'a. Vah csarcican't vacosehn ran'bin'he'ar.”


	2. The Vanquished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 - The Vanquished

_Often in life, one is presented with a choice that may lead them on one path or another. This choice is simply an illusion cast to simulate free will. Fate or Coincidence, they are one and the same, regardless of what is said on the contrary. Sentient life may sit and ponder long and vastly on a choice, but in the end they will always choose the path that has been set for them within the unconscious, whether they like it or not…_

Din likes to think that he’s made mostly descent, if not marginally good, decisions in life. Recent events seem to support this theory, but there are still days when the past sneaks up on him and suffocates him in its iron grasp. And it’s these days that remind him of the overwhelmingly large number of poor choices he’s made. He’s run with criminals, been a criminal himself. He’s killed and turned in potentially innocent souls who simply had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s lied and cheated and stolen, sometimes to survive, but largely for his own gain.

And now he’d been accused of living out his life under the teachings of a cult of extremists. How many of their actions was he to bear shame of? Should he bear it at all?

Din Darjin takes these new troubles and woes and packs them neatly into a box that shall never be opened on his own will, and locks the box in a deep corner of his mind right beside the names of the lives he’s taken. He can deal with it later, or -more likely- he will take them to his grave. He has too many other problems to solve and catastrophes to sort out without adding his own to the mix. His problems can wait, finding a meal that will fully satisfy the startling hunger of the Child cannot.

_The Child..._

He seems to have taken a liking to Vurawn in the few hours they’ve been in acquaintance, and Din can almost see why. The man seems to almost understand the infant’s never-ending and unintelligible babbling, swiftly answering any and all unspoken questions he is asked. Din, begrudgingly, felt that he could be trusted to some small degree so long as someone is there to keep a close watch.

The Mandalorian considers this new “ally” with no small amount of scrutiny. Vurawn is aging, that much is obvious to any onlooker. Grey streaks are prominent at his temples and crown, and soft wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes with every motion. He has aged well, Din thinks, no doubt in his mind that this alien has likely had no short trail of lovers in his time. And he appears well versed in handling children. Perhaps he is a father? But there is a weariness his eyes that Din has felt in the listless stares of his kin who have lost their own children. Perhaps Vurawn has been left alone by the cruel script of fate. He would not be surprised.

Onaka’s preferred method of capturing one’s attention appears to be sharply knocking his knuckles against the nearest table or clearing his throat with great theatrics, and Din is startled out of his musings.

“As I was saying, this is going to be no cheap deal, Mandalorian. What with fuel prices and the cost of a good ship, why I’d be surprised if you make it out of this for less than fifteen thousand credits!”

Din makes a face. “Then I guess you’re going to have to find me a better deal,” he says flatly.

The pirate looks utterly scandalized and splutters out a laugh. “My friend, I am offering what is reasonable here! Look at where you are! This is hardly Corellia- you’d have a better chance buying a decommissioned freighter from the Vanto’s than find a better deal than what I am offering!” He crosses his arms stubbornly, no doubt glaring behind his goggles. Din, for the most part, is mimicking his mannerisms.

“I do not trust deals made by pirates,” he hisses. “You said you’d take me to the Jedi, and so far you haven’t even held up that end of the deal. Why would I trust you with anything else?”

Onaka wave his hand dismissively. “What Bridger spends his time doing is his business. Technically, I brought you to the dwelling of the Jedi- close enough to our agreement, no?”

“No-“

“So see? Hondo can be trusted!” he persists. “What’s good for business is good for you, my friend.”

Under his helm, the Mandalorian’s nose wrinkles. “I am _not_ your friend.”

Hondo barks out a laugh, “Indeed you are, Mandalorian. Even if you don’t know it yet.”

~*~

It only took Ezra a week to decide that he liked Lysatra. The people seemed friendly, the towns were amusing, and there was no trace of any Imperial activity. Hondo had -in strange fashion- divulged little of the state of the rest of the galaxy to him in the few months since he’d pulled the remaining Chimaera crew from the derelict vessel, only claiming that he wanted to be as far away from it as possible. Much of the remaining crew had gone on their merry ways, seeking their families or home worlds, completely disregarding the warnings of the pirate. Others, such as Thrawn, would need to go to extreme lengths to accomplish such a task. And without knowing the fates of his own family, Ezra had decided to join him. Not entirely at his own volition, of course. Thrawn’s urgency when describing the masses of Force-sensitive little girls that lacked all forms of proper training had done a great deal to sway his decision, even if it had taken several years.

But for now, they were stuck on Lysatra until they could gather the funds for a ship study enough to get them through the Unknown Regions. Through the _Chaos_.

The name alone had made Ezra shiver.

Thrawn had said they would need a special kind of navigator or computer to find their way back to Chiss space, neither of which really existed outside of the Chaos. The admiral, of course, had decided almost instantly that that navigator would be Ezra. Practice, he’d called it, for when Ezra would be introduced to the Force-sensitives among the Chiss.

Outside the repair station’s windows, the sky begins to darken with the threat of an incoming storm and Ezra bites the inside of his cheek. He’d rather not be out in it -Lysatra rainstorms are hot and acidic and generally uncomfortable. Maybe he can hide at the shop until it passes? No, not likely. Rainstorms last days or weeks here. His best bet is to just duck out whenever he can with the collar of his jacket pulled over his head.

He sighs, looking down at the all but obliterated droid that had been dumped at his work station. Any chance of fixing it is slim, Ezra thinks. He’s better off just scrapping it for parts. It’s an old buzz droid, according to the stout old woman who’d dropped it off in a sac, Clone Wars era, and valuable.

Valuable, but utterly unfixable.

Ezra would take whatever currency was thrown at him, just so long as there was a lot of it. Thrawn’s tips from the cantina helped, but he didn’t put on as much of a show as his coworkers.

He rubbed his temples. Best just to get to work and let life happen around him. The woman -she’d called herself “Rossi” and left it at that- would be back within the week to pick up whatever Ezra could salvage. Which at this rate, wasn’t much.

With a grunt, he pops open the chassis and pees inside at the processing core. Wires fired and corroded, chips cracked and missing pieces, screws and bolts loose or nonexistent... There really isn’t even that much to _scrap_. Maybe he could fish out the central processing unit and sell its memory chips on the back market or saw off its lasers to sell to that one weapon-smith who liked to poke through the scrap bins from time to time. Ezra decided very quickly that he liked the man. He was older, and always boasted about how his granddaughter was already surpassing his skill in the trade at only ten years old. He’d have to stop in and visit them on his way off Lysatra.

Prying the droid’s processor out of the chassis was proving to be an annoying task, at best. Heavy, unbalanced, and dan near impossible to slice through, even with Ezra’s strongest tools.

Ezra balances a flashlight to point deep into the chassis, and his eyes widen.

No wonder Rossi had sounded so desperate to get the parts off of it.

 _Doonium_.

The droid in his hands had to be worth _at least_ ten thousand credits, if not _more_.

This could be their ticket off Lysatra.

Ezra wills his face into a calm mask and sets back to work scrapping the rest of the droid, piling its weapons and tool arsenal in one corner of the workstation and any other miscellaneous parts in the other. He’d have to sneak the doonium out of the shop if he’s to make it home without being caught.

~*~

Vurawn is the one to volunteer to make dinner that afternoon, the chid now happily watching the process from his carrier and babbling inquisitively every few minuets. He’s not sure if it’s speaking its native language or if it’s simply the strange babble that every child supposedly uses before it learns to speak. It’s almost endearing, but Vurawn would be lying through his teeth if he said the child’s insistence on grabbing everything from his hands wasn’t annoying him. Still, he does his best to explain as he works; why use a long knife instead of a short one for this vegetable, why use three standard spoons of sugar instead of two, and so on. Vurawn reasons that it’s the best way to keep his little mind distracted from causing problems.

At least, that was his mother’s philosophy when _he_ was a child.

_The child reaches again for the ladle, although his hands are far too small to grasp it properly. His forehead wrinkles in concentration, perhaps frustration, hand still reaching as if willing the utensil to come to him._

Vurawn nearly jumps back when the ladle in question flies into the child’s outstretched hands. He’s not sure why, perhaps it is the instinct that it might have _hit_ him that caused the reaction.

And it clicks.

“Vah csah ch'at Can’a Veb,” he murmurs. “Fascinating. No wonder your father seeks the Jedi.” Vurawn thinks for a moment, falling silent as he finishes slicing the meat into thin strips. His father had been an amazing cook and done his best to teach himself and Vurass the art. It never stuck with his brother, though he ended up becoming a talented baker. Too much of that talent had been ignored for the sake of politics, something Vurawn might never forgive the Mitth for.

Vurass.

 _Thrass_ …

Vurawn’s heart sicks into his socks. He’s loathe to admit it to the galaxy, but he misses his brother with all the agony and emptiness of space. He feels… cold.

_The child coos in question once again. His head tips upwards._

_“_ Nothing for you to worry about, little one,” Vurawn offers. “It is a…personal matter. Much to much for a creature as small as you.”

_The child makes another noise, one of rejection, perhaps._

Vurawn pats the child’s head with hesitance, lest the child use his Sight on him in vengeance. “You are too young as of yet for these matters, as I am sure your father has told you many times. The woes of this universe are not to be bestowed upon children.” He thinks his heart breaks a little more upon hearing the words aloud.

_Ab’begh, Che’ri._

_Un’hee, Vahn’ya._

_Sky-Walkers._

_The children of the colonists aboard the_ Outbound Flight _._

_Vurawn’s own niece and nephew._

_The children he has no doubt killed indirectly in his time with the Empire._

Vurawn swallows that particular guilt with every intention to lock it up in the depths of his subconscious and take it with him to his grave. He finishes prepping the meat for the pot and lets it fry a few minutes before throwing the vegetables in. Eli taught him this one nearly a decade ago. Making it, especially with a child strapped to his chest, draws out an uncomfortable sense of nostalgia. His eyes drift in and out of focus, focusing on the simmering pot. Spices would come next, in a few moments. Vurawn counted the minutes back in his mind.

_Black salt, crushed peppers… What were the others he’d used?_

_The child gums on the ladle, leaving no small number of teeth marks._

His species is surely predatory, Vurawn thinks. The creature’s tiny claws and razor sharp teeth are quite similar to his own. And Chiss are indeed predators.

“Is he behaving?”

Vurawn pokes the meat a little. “He appears to be teething,” he answers plainly. “If I were you, I would keep him away from anything you do not wish to be covered in…” After so many years, he still does not know the word. “Tell me, do you speak any trade language?”

_The Mandalorian nods. He radiates confusion._

“Sy Bisti, but not very well,” he admits.

Vurawn nods and turns to check the meat again. “Angefusiu akambuzwu ngetshwulu.” His lips curl ever so slightly. He does indeed remember Thrass complaining about this stage in the lives of his own children. Several of his best robes had become victim to teething incidents.

A sound close to a laugh rumbles from under the Mandalorian’s helm. “I’ll keep that in mind.” A pause, then, “Hondo says you’re looking to get back to the Unknown Regions. I have a ship. We can ferry you to the boarders.”

Vurawn stiffens. “I have seen what you consider a “ship”, Mandalorian. The Chaos would maul you vessel beyond saving, assuming it can still be saved. At any rate, Lysatra itself is the furthest we can travel without breaching the Chaos.” He shuts the heat off and shovels the meat and vegetables into a serving bowl. The child babbles with excitement. Clearly, he is hungry. Another unmistakeable phase of childhood, Vurawn thinks.

_The Mandalorian’s posture is taunt and defensive. His fingers flex at his hip, as if itching to draw his blaster. He is, perhaps, offended._

He says nothing, and Vurawn continues tooling about. “Cutlery can be found in the third drawer to your left.” There is a moment of stillness, marked with uncomfortable and potentially threatening eye-contact, before the Mandalorian turns to the drawer. “Pottery is in the cupboard above.”

The Mandalorian huffs in annoyance, but complies.

_He will need to learn the importance of cooperation if he is to survive. Mandalorians are proud and noble beats not unlike the Chiss, but Chiss can be reasoned with and prefer reason. A warrior of Mandalore knows only violence and dominance._

~*~

The acid rain pelts against the heavy leather of his coat right up until the moment Ezra slams his fist against the panel to close the door behind him. He sighs, perhaps with more dramatics than necessary, and drops the bag of doonium to the ground with a loud _thunk_ before shrugging his jacket off. His first instinct is to rush into the living center and show Thrawn and Hondo the doonium, but Hondo is shifty and there is an aroma in the air that nearly knocks him off his feet. Thrawn must’ve been cooking again…

But…

_‘…you are as its father…’_

_‘…by creed…’_

_‘…is to be terminated…’_

_‘…clan…two…’_

_‘…I go, he goes…’_

‘… _you know what I’m talking about…’_

Ezra’s head pounds against his skull as a wave of agony and bitterness crashes over him. Something dark lurks in the air, something sickening… he sways a little on his feet, trying instead to focus on the delicious smell coming from the kitchen.

_Breathe, Ezra._

He puts one foot in front of the other, one hand against the wall for balance. He’ll make it to the kitchen if it’s the last thing he does.

~*~

Din and Vurawn found a common enemy when it came time to seat the child at the table. The wriggling little creature couldn’t seem to make up his mind who to sit with, though he appeared none too happy to be passed off to Hondo for even the briefest of seconds. Several swift scoldings in both Mando’a and some off-books language and one thinly veiled threat regarding the removal of one very specific ladle from his presence, and the child finally settled into the half-rigged high chair the pirate had managed to scrape together as the child terrorized Din.

There is the scuffle of boots behind him, and Din draws his blaster before he can think twice. At the other end of the barrel is a young man who can be no older than his early-20s, hands held in the air and face twisted in confusion.

“Uh, hi?”

He does not lower the blaster, not until a frigid hand clamps over his own and forces it down.

“Vurawn?” The young man asks. “Who’s the Mando?”

A squeal cuts off any repose Din can offer, and before he can redirect his attention the young man has made a beeline for the child.

“That,” Vurawn says smoothly, still crushing Din’s hand in his own, “is your Jedi Knight.”

Din hears the man mutter something that sounds like “Yoda” and “gone my whole life without that image” and tips his head in question.

“Unfortunately, there are trials he must pass before being granted the rank of Master, I am told.” Vurawn adds. “A curious system, indeed. Not unlike many military systems of rank.”

“I don’t understand what that has to do with-“

“You seek a Jedi to instruct your son in their ways, to raise and train him appropriately,” Vurawn accuses. “And here you have found one.”

_He needs the damn shabuir to let go of his hand before he-_

“I have been quested to return him to his people,” the Mandalorian snaps, “and _that_ is a human!”

The alien’s glare is withering. “I am well aware of his race. Like yourself, the Jedi are not all one-“

“Gentlemen, _please!”_

The squabbling men turn to face Hondo, who is barely containing a very agitated child. The Jedi looks on, aghast.

“There _are_ children present, you know!” Hondo scowls. “You can bicker over this later, but for now there’s food and drink to be indulged in! We’re not going to let the poor man’s work go to waste, are we?”

The Jedi, of course, was already seated with the child on his lap, completely disregarding the high chair and trying to show him how to hold a fork.

Finally, and with one last bone-shattering glare, Vurawn drops his arm.

“Zegadi endlilu yokazephuthu,” he warns, “Kakhenu ezenguni izekhonu.” He turns to sit and choses the seat beside the Jedi and the child, face schooled into one of calm arrogance.

Hondo pats DIn’s shoulder in what he assumes is meant to be comfort. “Don’t take offense, my friend. We’re still working on his manners. Though,” the pirate pauses to think and scoop more vegetables into his bowl. “Yours could use some work if we’re to be associates.”

“I already told you; we are not friends.”

Dinner, by some miracle of the heavens, passes with little more than the occasional glare and passive comment about _someone’s_ cultural stoicism and- _no Ezra, please don’t give the kid any ideas_.

It’s not until Hondo has declared that he’s ready for a night out and those who remain are scattered about near the fireplace that Ezra brings up the bag of doonium sitting under his bed at that moment.

“Some lady, older and really mean actually, now that I think about it,” Ezra recounts, “dumped it off around midday and demanded I fix it. Apparently she found it in some cargo hold on her ship and just wants it working.” He shrugs and catches the wad of flimsi that the kid throws at him, completely ignoring the hit-with-a-stick expression on Vurawn’s face. “It’s garbage really, the droid. Looks like it was put through a shredder a few times.”

“A tibana explosion is more likely.” Vurawn’s brows are drawn together. “Ezra, can you recall her name?”

He thinks for a moment, chewing on his lips. “Rossi, I think. That’s the name that was tacked onto the request. She didn’t give it to me personally.”

Vurawn stiffens, and he sits straighter. “I was not aware that she had…” he trails off, looking pensively into his teacup, and Ezra frowns. The Force is wavering around him in almost painful quakes. He’s holding something back, that much Ezra is certain of, but Chiss minds are too complex for him to get a good look inside.

The Mando’s helmet turns up from the sock he’s darning. “Is that important?”

“Very, although I cannot go into detail,” Vurawn confesses. “But indeed, Ezra is correct. The doonium in the droid, among any other parts he can sell from it, is in fact, _our ticket off Lysatra._ ” He thinks for a moment, expression almost blank now. Sooner or later, Ezra muses, he’s going to figure out how to read that face. “I could not help but overhear your frustrations with Onaka this afternoon,” he inclines his head towards the Mando. “You may take comfort in knowing that his assumption that you require his aide is entirely false. Especially now that we have access to this resource which Ezra has provided.”

“You know someone?” Mando asks.

The corner of Vurawn’s lips twitch. To Ezra, it is the same face that precedes the execution of a half-baked scheme.

“Why, the Vantos, of course.”


	3. The Negotiator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 - The Negotiator

Din, of course, is the one tasked with hauling the doonium off to market. He had almost been forced to go alone, but he’s managed to convince Vurawn -at least to some degree- that he is more than perfectly capable of taking care of the child while out and about. The face he’d earned in reaction was one of utter disbelief and mild annoyance.

According to Ezra, that was just his resting face. 

He learns that they’re in Eestol, one of the smaller metropolitan centers of Lysatra’s southern continent, and that the market district is scarcely different from that of Nevarro. It’s just… bigger. More populated. Stalls are equipped with advertising tech and is surrounded on all sides by buildings that must have three hundred levels each. Din, all but trapped in his armor, feels more claustrophobic than ever. He does not know the streets, he does not know the sectors, there are too many traders and peddlers on all sides and  ferrik why is the sun so hot today? It must be hell on the poor baby’s exposed head, he thinks. Is there a vendor selling hats nearby? 

The directions Ezra offered are little help, Din muses. The boy gave vague landmarks and poorly assumed measurements of both time and distance.

Still, it was less suspicious and more likely for a stranger to be delivering a shot to hell buzz droid with a chassis full of doonium than the local scrapper or bartender. The latter of which, Din decided, stuck out worse than polished beskar in a place like this. Surely there was no disguise that would fully conceal his identity without accidentally drawing  more attention to himself. Honestly, Din mused, if it wasn’t for his eyes, Vurawn  might be able to pass as Pantoran. 

_ Might . _

_ Wasn’t he supposed to turn back there? _

The child is babbling nonsense at whatever has piqued his interest this time, and Din does his best to follow his gaze and the reaching of his little hands. 

_ They still look more like paws . _

It’s a toy, he discovers. Small and plush and just the right size for a small child. 

Din considers the toy, then his son, then the vendor. She’s old enough to be  his grandmother. 

No harm in that, right?

It is as if she sees them before they ever saw her, and her eyes pierce through Din’s visor. 

“How much for the stuffed Bantha?” Din asks, pointing to the toy in question.

The woman smiles. “For that precious little face?” Her eyes flick to the child, a glint of  something behind them. “No charge. But that’s not the only question you have, is it?” 

The Mandalorian tenses beneath his armor, and the woman laughs. 

“Come now, all new faces have their questions.” She reaches for the bantha toy and passes it to the waiting hands of the child. “Information is priceless.” 

Still, he is wary, but she speaks again before he has the chance. 

“Te Kurshok at te daab cuyir shi venjii te goran, Mando,” she winks, “Sirbur ibac gar ganar olaror teh te dayn rusur, ti waadas be te aru'e. They will listen to that.”

One hand falls to his blaster while the other wraps protectively around the child. ”Tion'ad cuyir gar?”

The woman’s smile does not fade, even at the threat. If anything, it becomes more mischievous. “This is the Way.” 

And with that, she turns to assist the woman who has somehow approached the stall unnoticed, leaving Din to wonder who exactly she had been.

The Downs is exactly what Din was expecting of a Black Market, and everything he doesn’t. It’s an almost perfect mirror image of the district on the surface, and as such, it’s a little unsettling. 

A scrapper is his best bet, maybe a smith. A collector would be even better, but the droid he’s hauling has been scrapped already. He just needs to offload the doonium and the rest of the weapons that had once been attached. 

Din has no trouble finding a slicer willing to pay handsomely for the data chips and interfacing servos.

Next, a very tired and very grumpy modifier takes the plasma cutter off his hands for a lovely fee, and already there’s more money in his pocket than they could have hoped for. 

More money, and a bigger target painted on the back of his helm.

Another hour passes with no luck on the doonium. He’s managed to offload everything else, some to a toy maker, others to a handful of arms dealers, and the like. Din’s fairly certain that the... person who purchases the coolant hoses intends to use them in distilling spice. 

It’s precisely none of his business, though he’s been wishing for quite some time that he’d left the child with Ezra. 

The black market really is no place for an unprotected child. 

For  _ any _ child. 

The child, however, does not seem to care. In fact, his presence almost  helps some of their transactions as a few have taken pity on the  poor single father just trying to provide for his child . 

Whatever works.

They’re sitting in the back corner of a particularly shady cantina when the first offer is finally made. 

Din can’t quite place the female’s species, but she is tall and balances on six spindly legs, with at least four more limbs protruding from her torso. She speaks only Sy Bisti, or at least refuses to speak any other language. 

“I am told you are selling precious things,”  she hisses. Din wonders, in the back of his head, if her species is in any way related to the bartender from the previous day. 

“ I am, ” he replies flatly. “ Are you buying?”

“ That does depend on what you sell.” There is a threatening aura about her, he thinks, and he rests his palm against the grip of his blaster. “ I hear that Mandalorian steel is the most valuable metal in the galaxy.”

Din’s jaw tightens. “ This is not Mandalorian steel,” he lies, “ I was told it was a cheap alumnite copy. ” The words are almost painful to utter, but it’s for the best. “ But I am selling doonium from the core of a first generation Buzz Droid. I am told it’s quite valuable to traders in this part of the galaxy.”

The woman recoils a little, a very distinct trail of anger following her. “ I will pay for Mandalorian steel, and Mandalorian steel only. And I shall peel it from your corpse if I must.”

“ I’m telling you, it’s just alumnite,” he insists. “ It has the same luster properties as their steel, it’s just way weaker, cheaper, and more common. Any appraiser will tell you the same thing and you’ll find yourself cheated out of a whole lot of credits.”

She snarls, lunges, and before Din can think there’s a knife at his throat. 

“ _Haphthesi_!”

A blaster appears at the base of her skull. 

“Stand down. I don’ want any a’ your trouble in here.” The voice is gruff and tired and belongs to a man that looks alarmingly similar to Vurawn, but with patchy skin. 

The woman lowers her knife at the sound of a low growl from the man, but takes her time retreating and spits on Din’s armor, just for good measure. 

“Sorry ‘bout her, Mando.” The man holsters his blaster and wipes his hands on the dish rag tied to his apron, acting as if this was a daily occurrence. And knowing where they are, it most certainly is. “No respect for anyone, I swear by the moons.” He sighs, then holds a hand out in greeting. “Je’siti, I run this place.” 

Din eyes the man warily, but the aura of danger does not exist around him. He clasps his forearm and offers a firm shake. “My pleasure. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone looking to get their hands on a camptino’s worth of doonium, would you?” 

Je’siti barks out a good-natured laugh. “I was wonderin’ when you were gonna ask that.” He takes a seat across the table and throws a little wave at the child, who’d bee watching the previous exchange silently. “My apologies again on behalf ‘a that witch. Now that I see you got a little one, I should’a intervened sooner.”

“He’s seen worse,” Din grumbles.

“Not by choosin, I hope.” 

Din sighs in resignation. “He... I rescued him after his village was attacked by Imps. I’ve done what I can to shelter him since then.” 

Je’siti nods in somber understanding. “War’s non-discriminatory, kid. It’s not on you. Now, about this doonium? How much’re you askin?”

“Fifteen thousand, lowest.” 

“Hells,” Je’siti scoffs, “I’d give ya thirty if it’s genuine.” 

“It is.” 

Je’siti laughs again, and a small sense of relief floods him. They’d already pulled in forty for the other parts, but to get  thirty more from the metal itself? Vurawn was only hoping for  twenty . 

Criminals pay very,  very well.

Din, for the briefest of moments, grins, and pulls the container from under the table. “See for yourself. Got it out of a trashed first gen buzz droid on my way here. Figured it might be worth something to someone.” 

Je’siti lifts a curious brow as he opens the container, and promptly puffs a laugh through his nose. “How ‘bout thirty-five?” 

“Why so much for just that?” Did can’t help but be curious. He knows it’s valuable, but  that valuable?

“ Kid, round here we use this stuff for fixin up artificial organs and the like.” Je’siti explains, “People need things to last. Hells, I’ll pay whatever it takes to get a decent supply of this stuff on hand.”

Din nods in agreement. “Sounds like a fair deal to me. Imperial credit?”

The man sighs, an almost mournful expression decorating his face. “Yeah, whatever’s goin on in the Core, they ain’t done a thing about the currency. That’s about all we deal in out here.” 

Another nod. “Thirty-five and it’s yours.”

Je’siti smiles, something like gratitude appearing in his eyes. “Follow me back. This ain’t no pocket change.” 

~*~

He honestly can’t remember the last time he was  this worked up over his appearance. Perhaps it is because he’s been confined to some sort of uniform or strict dress code for the majority of his life. Vurawn isn’t sure. 

He also isn’t sure  _ why _ he’s so worked up. 

They’re just going to try and make a deal with Vanto Shipping, not attend an Ascension Week gala. 

Vurawn huffs and casts a deathly glare at his pitiful excuse for a wardrobe. Most of it are pieces so outdated that Thrass might actually suffer a stroke if he so much as looked at them. 

And people called  _ Vurawn _ the dramatic one.

Clearly, they’d never spent more then five seconds with the elder brother. Or if they had, it had been under the careful observation of his wife, who was easily seven-eighths of Thrass’s verbal filter, if not all of it. She was particularly skilled at keeping him in check, something the entire Mitth homestead was quite thankful for during the holidays and most formal events. 

_ Thrass would haunt him forever if he wore that jacket over that tunic . _

Vurawn sighed. If it wouldn’t get him shot on sight, he’d just throw on a uniform and call it a day. This was far too much work for what he was going to be doing.

_ Assuming the Mandalorian succeeds in his mission _ _,_ he grumbles. He really doesn’t trust  anyone with that serious of a mission. Not anymore. Vurawn had half a mind that morning to just do it himself, but he would have been recognized and that was simply out of the question. If Ezra had done it, that would have been far too suspicious. 

And Vurawn wouldn’t trust the pirate with a  _ flimsiclip _ , let alone an entire camptino of  doonium . 

_ Perhaps the jacket would suffice with a white tunic? _

_ Not the brown trousers, though. That, even to myself, is an abomination. _

He really,  _ really _ dislikes this. 

And this outfit... 

Vurawn would look like a  smuggler if he actually wore it out in daylight. 

_ A truly loathesome idea, really.  _

He sighs once more and tosses the jacket aside for the sake of making a nice pot of tea. Cs’miyl was a difficult blend to find on Lysatra, but there was exactly  one imperium in Minisit that carried it. Vurawn couldn’t remember the last time Csilla had allowed the  export of  anything beyond the boarders of the Ascendancy, but smugglers exist in all corners of the galaxy, he thinks. And this time, he’s more than thankful for that existence. The tea is one of very few things keeping him sane at the moment. 

Or, as Thrass might joke,  _ he’s just getting old .  _

No room to talk, that one. Not as the eldest of three siblings with a far gap between each of them. 

_ No room at all .  _

The kettle has barely begun to boil when the Mandalorian returns with a small case in hand, and Vurawn -for several terrifying seconds- loses hope. 

“How much did the market pay for the doonium, if they paid at all?” 

The Mandalorian’s posture holds amusement, if such a thing is possible. He appears... confident.

The Mandalorian sets the case on the table with a dull  thunk . “Will seventy-five thousand be enough?”

Vurawn almost spits out his tea. That was... that was over  three times as much as he was expecting. With pockets lined that deep and the money he and Ezra had been earning, they could  buy a decently sized vessel of their own. Suddenly, his day was much,  much better. 

Until he was forced to go back to his wardrobe, of course. That was enough to sour even the best of moods. 

“That will certainly be sufficient for our needs,” Vurawn agrees evenly. “Will you be accompanying me to meet with the Vantos, then?” 

_ His posture stiffens, fingers flexing at his sides. He is... unsure. The child, on the other hand, makes a noise of contentment, perhaps excitement. He must, in great contrast to his father, enjoy being social. _

“They may very well respond better to you than they will to me,” Vurawn adds on. 

_ They will undoubtedly look unkindly upon me, as they are no doubt aware of how their son’s career was derailed at my hand.  _

“I- sure?” 

Vurawn nods, taking a sip of his tea. “They are expecting us just past midday.” 

_ The muscles of his arms go taunt. _

“That… works for me.”

_ He appears to glance at the child . _

“He comes too.”

“I wouldn’t dream of separating you,” Vurawn says politely. The child hold his toy a little closer as the Mandalorian sets him on the ground and removes the carrier sling. 

_ The child’s eyes are half lidded and his chirps are quiet. He is tired. _

Vurawn watches the child closely, now only half focused on his tea and not at all thinking about his wardrobe dilemma. 

_ The child looks to his father. There is undoubtedly a connection between them, as there is between any parent and child. Perhaps there is more. The sight which creates a mental link between living creatures, perhaps.. .  His eyes turn, wide, perhaps pleading. _

Vurawn sighs and sets aside his mug, crouching down and picking up the child. One little hand keeps a tight hold on the bantha toy, and the other grasps at Vurawn’s shirt. _He_ _ is sleepy... _

“Perhaps it would be best for the little one if he sleeps a while before we embark on this quest,” he suggests, voice low in an attempt to keep from rousing the child. “An upset infant may be detrimental to our plans.”

The Mandalorian nods almost imperceptibly. 

_ The musculature of his shoulders relaxes, and his arms fall loose at his sides.  _

“You will forgive me,” Vurawn shifts his posture, now leaning against the counter. The child is already fast asleep against his shoulder. “I never did hear your proper name when Onaka introduced us. I should like to know the identity of my allies.” 

_ The Mandalorian tilts his head to the side, perhaps offended, perhaps processing. His shoulders tense once again… _

“I am a Mandalorian,” he says flatly. 

Vurawn’s expression becomes deadpan. “Yes. I can see that.” 

The warrior gives a little shrug. “That’s all you need to know.” 

“If we are to work together, there should be at least some small degree of trust that exists,” Vurawn points out evenly. “If you are reluctant, then I shall allow you mine. Though, I doubt you will be capable of pronouncing it, as I assume you are human.”

“I am.” 

The plush slips from the child’s hand in his sleep, only to be caught at the last second and placed on the counter with the utmost caution. “Kivu’raw’nuru,” he says plainly. “Though, there are none outside of my people who can grasp the nuances which make it a name.” 

“ Kivu’raw’nuru ,” the Mandalorian repeats without hesitation, as if he had been challenged.

Vurawn’s eyes brighten for the briefest of seconds before returning to normal. Perhaps he isn only able to speak it as it is not nearly as complex as the name he was adopted into. There are less syllables and pauses. Perhaps he simply speaks enough languages to have learned the unlearnable. 

_ At least he doesn’t slice it to shameful pieces like Skywalker had…  _

He makes a small gesture with is free hand, inviting the Mandalorian to speak, before repositioning the sleeping child. “I believe it is your turn.” 

“I am a Child of the Watch.” 

Vurawn shoots him a  look . “And here I thought that  my name was complex. That does seem quite a length.” He thinks for a moment. If he still had access to… no, that would never work. Not without knowing his clan. And his armor could have changed… Too many unknowns. It’s unsettling, at best. 

“As much as I would like to know yours,” he continues, “I fear that this may fall out of hand, and I would rather not wake the child.” 

The Mandalorian is still, unmoving save for the subtle rise and fall of his breath. He does not appear to be one to compromise…

“Fine.” 

~*~

Of all the places Din  wants to be, none of them are seated next to a possibly-hostile alien, in a  _ tea garden _ -of all places- discussing buying terms with an elderly couple who boarder on senile and  _ absolutely _ have a history with said alien. The child doesn’t seem to notice the suffocating tension that swirls around them, content to sit in Vurawn’s lap and sip at the little teacup he was offered. Vurawn himself seems perfectly, infuriatingly, at ease. He’s already held the child’s tiny hands to show him how to guide the cup, and now sits calmly with one hand still around the child’s middle and the other wrapped with annoying elegance around his own cup. 

Somehow, he’s managed to pull together an aura that demands respect, looking much more like a businessman than a  bartender . 

And he’s already flawlessly explained-away the presence of a  child in their negotiations. In Vurawn’s neatly-woven little story, they are traveling merchants whose ship was plundered and destroyed by pirates, and they were the only survivors. Din is framed as a metalworker, Vurawn as a sculptor, and the child is the orphan of one of their late-crewmembers. 

They’ve already been mistaken twice for  _ husbands _ and Din truly does not believe that the day can get any worse. Though, he’d rather not curse their luck by saying so aloud. 

Vurawn sets his cup aside and smiles politely. “I understand your apprehension, Mister Vanto. Though I can guarantee proper payment as soon as a deal is reached.” 

Vanto grumbles into his teacup. “You drive a good bargain,  Thrass . Bold of ya to even make a proposal.” 

Din has spent a good portion of the negotiations in silence. This sort of thing is well out of his league, and he still isn’t sure  why the insufferable man wanted him to join. 

He focus back on the child, who seems intent on reaching for a biscuit from the tray. At least he’s been polite and hasn’t caused any trouble or attempted to eat the Vantos’ pet boggling. 

“We do not require much, you are aware,” Vurawn continues smoothly. “Just something that can get us back to our homeward.” 

At this, Din nearly flinches. That part of their cover story _hadn’t_ been discussed. If someone decided to ask him about it, they’d be caught in the act.

The woman -they learned her name to be Eva Vanto- smiles a little in interest. “And where might that be, darlin?” 

Vurawn doesn’t even  blink . “Naboo,” he says. “We were forced to flee not three years past when the Empire brought it’s fist down upon the world.” 

That much, at least, he’d gotten from Din, who had painstakingly explained everything that had happened while Vurawn and Ezra were… Well, while they were missing . _ He was still a bit bitter for having to do so.  _

Eva’s face softens with sympathy and her hand covers her heart. “Oh, it really is terrible how all those commanders turned their back on the Emperor the moment they learned of the assassination. You poor dears.” 

Her husband does not appear to share her sentiments, if the gruff expression he wears is any indication. “At any rate, I want to hear what you’re selling. Then we can talk ships.” 

“We will pay thirty-five down, then another twenty on delivery of the vessel.” Vurawn says evenly before taking a sip of his tea. The child mimics him, though with none of the man’s grace. 

“Fifty-five thousand credits for a fully operational vessel? In this economy!” Mr. Vanto barks out a laugh that sparks a flare of irritation under Din’s armor. Clearly the man lacks his wife’s social skills. “You boys’d have better luck with some still-clingin’ Imp!” 

Din looks to Vurawn, expecting the him to look just as offended as he feels. Instead, he sees nothing but polite patience. 

The child has sense grown bored of attempting to reach for any cakes and has begun to gnaw on the pendant around his neck. The sight, Din thinks, will never cease to warm his heart. 

“Perhaps you might tell us what you would expect as payment,” Vurawn suggests with thinly veiled contempt. 

The Mandalorian runs the numbers Vurawn has spat out once more, and it clicks. But there’s never a guarantee that it will _work._

Mr. Vanto makes eye-contact with his wife, who offers naught but a frown and a shake of her head. Whether it is on Din and Vurawn’s behalf or in favor of her husband, he cannot tell. 

“We won’t accept anything under sixty thousand, all down,” he says stoutly, casting an almost misplaced glare to the child. “And that’s for an old business transport. Two-seater, minimal cargo. Not even sure if it would get you back to Corellia.” 

Vurawn quirks a brow. “Fifty-five, all down, and you make it something that can suit a family, to Corellia, at the very least.” His voice has dropped to an icy chill, Din notices, and the hand around the child’s midsection has curled tighter, almost more protective. The way he uses “family”, however, leaves a sour taste in Din’s mouth. 

Silence hangs in in the air like a thick fog, filled only with the barely-audible drooly giggles of the child to ease the tension. Eva has not lifted her glare, nor does Mr. Vanto seem likely to break. 

“Sixty down and you boys run a little errand for us first.” 

This earns Mr. Vanto a sharp jab in the ribs from his wife. “Where  are your _manners_? Now quit talkin and let the adults do the negotiatin for a change.” 

Once again the Mandalorian is grateful that his expressions are hidden from view, as a triumphant grin begins to toy at his lips.

“Now,” Eva huffs. “Our hangar chief, heavens bless his little heart, has this ol’ Gozanti-class freighter that we just don’t know what to do with. Now, it ain’t worth much, and I’d be willing to let her go to ya for that fifty-five all down, or we can do your deal- half down and half once those codes are in your hands,  and you boys help us with a little somethin’ none too strenuous, okay?” 

Vurawn turns his gaze to Din, chin lifted in question. Din, personally, has done far more for far less. 

“We’ll do it,” he says curtly. “What’s the favor?” 

Where there had just been eagerness, sorrow now paints Eva’s worn face. Even her husband, who had been nothing but rusted nails, softens. “If you boys ever find your way to Coruscant, you stop by that there memorial they’ve got for all the officers the Empire lost.” She pulls a datachip and a flimsi envelope from her dress pocket and passes it to Din. “Rahl an’ I are gettin too old for that trip, but you boys put that letter by the name Eli Vanto and the chip by his friend, oh… Rahl, do you remember that boy who worked with our Eli?” 

Mr. Vanto’s face scrunched in thought. “Not by much that I can say, no. It’ll be somethin’ long though. He was an alien, that’s all I remember. Some sorta Pantoran, we thought.” His voice trails off, and it is only now that Din spots the pain lingering behind Vurawn’s perfectly schooled face and in the tightness of his voice. 

“On my honor, we will see it done,” Vurawn promises. “My people do not take promises lightly, and we will die before breaking them. We will see these gifts bestowed.” 

~*~

There is a breeze today. One that is light and warm and gives breathe to those who have ventured outdoors. It is a respite from the sun in the mid afternoon when it is at its highest and hottest, the one saving grace among a cloudless sky. There are whispers carried in each nuance and bristle, messages and woes to be heard, stories to marvel. With each breath drawn, life is renewed and memory is replenished. Here, away from the bustle of urban life, there is nothing but peace. The only malice one will find is the malice they bring themselves.

The riverbank is a sanctuary of its own, overflowing with life but not overwhelming. Birdsong echoes in harmony with the babbling water, wind rustles the vibrant leaves overhead and the petals on flowers below. Wildlife lingers where it may. Beneath ones’ feet are the dying roots of flora and the bones of fauna, all giving back to the growth around them in their decay in perfect balance.

Ezra’s hair curls around his face as he allows himself to remain suspended in the breeze, eyes closed and lips parted only enough to allow his own breath to come and go as it will. There is no strain in his muscles, nor in his mind. It is likely that these next hours will be his last on this world, and there is indeed a part of him that will mourn that fact. But to leave one world and leap into exploration once more? To find himself on new worlds and explore everything he can of them? That is by far preferable to remaining in one place for the rest of his days as flesh and bone. Still, he allows his mind to linger on Lysatra, on every string and vibration and wave, on every ray of light and shadow cast in moonlight. There are stories that will be forever captured in his own net, stories that resulted from the yanking of nature’s strings and unraveling her fabric to be rewoven by Mortals. Stories that have seen great triumph and great loss across the inhabitants of space and time. These stories are the ones Ezra keeps tucked back for nights when sleep alludes him. In those moments, he plucks them out and recites them until he passes from the conscious world. 

In the relative silence of the glen, Ezra allows his mind to drift where it may, to show him what needs to be thought about, and soon he finds himself in the entry to the building he’s called home for the better part of six months now. His skin tingles and his shoulders are weighed down- surely this is the evening prior when the Mandalorian first appeared. It has taken much of the night to figure out that it was the child -who was undeniably an offspring or close relative to Master Yoda, and this he would believe until his grave- whose thoughts and memories had been echoing in the tension he felt. Though, the child and his gifts had not at all been what kept him up that night, tossing and turning with a fear and anxiety that he had not truly felt in a terribly long time. Now, at least, he presumed it was the presence of the Mandalorian and his armor. The armor itself was already presenting itself as more troublesome than the man wearing it. There was something so utterly, so completely  wrong about it. There had been no sense of family, no love, no connections, nothing tying him to the plates that shielded his body. What Ezra had sensed in that moment was overwhelming pain and anguish, as if the armor had been bought in the blood of a thousand Mandalorians for the sake of one suit. That alone draws the taste of bile into Ezra’s mouth. 

So much has happened within and without, he thinks bitterly. So many things are still unknown, still unaccounted for, and yet they’re just going to leave to the Unknown Regions? To the Ascendancy? He’s heard talk of the Empire’s fall, how Wild Space is generally not thrilled with the New Republic and how they intend to demand to be left well enough alone. But it answers nothing about the countless other systems that had been under the heel of the Empire for decades. 

What of Lothal? Of Mandalore and her worlds? Of Tatooine? 

The pit in his stomach grows into an echoing cavern, threatening to steal the last of the air from his lungs.

A shiver runs down his spine and Ezra lets go, allowing himself to fall to the ground. So much is so wrong still, so much unrest still lingers. It’s poison in the air, impenetrable. There is no solace where there is malice, he knows. And Lysatra and the rest of the galaxy, for all of their beauties and claims of lasting peace, will forever be brimming with malice. 


	4. The Pilot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 - The Pilot

_The paths we walk in life are not always parallel to those we do not wish to encounter, nor is it likely for paths to converge at only a single point. What is most likely is that the paths of those most meaningful and those with the greatest impact on one’s soul will converge for the first time in a time that is entirely unable to cultivate the intended relationship. The second time these paths converge is often the correct time and place, and the souls will undoubtedly become entwined. This may also be true in ones’ choice of career or interests, or perhaps an opportunity to be exploited. Though, for one reason or another, there is no true way to determine or control when or how these paths converge. Such is the nature of Fate and Chance, though it is likely that they are one and the same or that they exist in nothing at all…_

With the access chip in hand and the docking number for the Gozanti freighter _Stardust_ programed into Vurawn’s holopad, he _should_ be feeling nothing but relief at the progression of his and Bridger’s plans.

Alas, emotions are not controlled by the conscious nor the preconscious, Vurawn laments as he takes a perhaps too-risky turn onto a new street. The child squeals in delight from his place in the Mandalorian’s arms beside him, but the sound does decidedly little to alter his increasingly foul mood.

 _They wanted him to deliver a letter to their son’s grave_.

_Their son who is still very much alive and thriving._

_Their son, who they believe to be dead at my hands._

_Eli, who they love dearly and believe that I killed, while I paraded in front of them under the name of my own fallen brother_.

Suffice to say, the energy Vurawn is emitting is indeed stifling. Even the Mandalorian, who appears to have the observational skills of a rotten moss-rock, surely must be aware of Vurawn’s death grip on the steering wheel and the tooth-shattering clench of his jaw.

 _Make no mistake_ , he thinks to himself as if he is another person, _he does not feel anger, but rather a deep shame for all of the wrongdoings of his life and the sorrowful number of individuals who have suffered in both the short and long term by his hand._

He really does, to describe a habit of Vanto’s from their first weeks together at Royal Imperial, want to knock something’s block off.

Preferably his own block, at the moment.

Vurawn is not in a good mood, and it is the first thing a very uncharacteristically timid-looking Ezra notices when the speeder comes into his line of sight. He no longer flinches when Vurawn enters a room or breathes as if he is about to speak.

_His body tenses, and his temperature lowers a fraction of a degree, a common manifestation of anxiety in most humans._

Another point of suffering on Vurawn’s record, it seems.

Ezra, much to the Chiss’s surprise, addresses _him_ first, despite whatever anxiety is lurking beneath his skin.

“So?” He asks, clearly masking the waver in his voice, “How’d it go?”

“We secured a pre-Empire era Gozanti-class freighter that should suit our needs,” Vurawn recounts flatly. “We are to collect the vessel and pay the remainder of the sum within the hour.”

To his continued confusion, Ezra’s expression darkens. Shouldn’t he be expressing excitement?

“Unless our new friend can pilot one of those _and_ has a clone in his pocket,” Bridger begins hesitantly, “we’re still up a dung river without a paddle.”

Vurawn makes a face. “Come again?” In his opinion, humans never seem to run out of colloquialisms and idioms that apply almost universally.

“What he means,“ the Mandalorian huffs from beside him, “is that we still drew the short stick in the deal. I can fly those things, _sort of_ , but I’ll need a copilot if we intend to get out of the atmosphere.”

_His voice is dry, even through the modulation of his helm. Clearly, he has experience to back up his claim. Perhaps it was not good experience._

Bridger lifts his brows and inclines his head in Vurawn’s direction. “You gave me a look when I mentioned the lady who dumped those droids on me and I got a really weird feeling from you. Who is she?”

Vurawn wishes he had to dig through his memory for the woman’s information, but her bitterness was all but legendary, all things considered, and her image was still very clear in his mind. “Then-Captain Filia Rossi was in command of my first assignment in the Imperial Navy when I arrived. We had… a great number of disagreements over the duration of our service together. I do not have fond memories of her, nor was her command style particularly agreeable in the eyes of many of my former crewmates,” he explained. “She often valued profit over lives, and reprimanded me for having an opposite outlook on many of our missions. She was particularly foul to my translator, which is entirely unacceptable.”

“That’s krayt spit,” Ezra huffs out. “But let me guess, she’s at least passable as a pilot and will play some key part in this entire plot?”

_His ability to interpret one’s intentions has progressed, although the tension of his jaw does not indicate relief._

The Mandalorian seems to find his voice, although it is tight and forced through clenched teeth. “I agree with the kid. If this is putting you in danger in _any_ sense, I won’t do it. We can hire out a local pilot.”

“Our current goal is to reach the Chaos, and further, the Ascendancy physically intact.” Vurawn straightens his posture in a manner he has not since his days on the bridge of the _Chimaera_. He does have to look down at the Mandalorian to meet his eyes, which -in a sense- only furthers his display of superiority.

He does not intend to act superior, for he is well aware that he is not. He is, perhaps, the inferior of all three currently in the room. Perhaps in all of Lesser Space. That opinion does become a little murky once he begins to consider the Ascendancy, and several names pop into the forefront of his mind regarding gross incompetence and arrogance. _Certainly_ he is not like much of the Aristocra, who all act as if they are the greatest gifts the universe has to offer. Vurawn has said it many times in the past and will continue to say it until his dying breath -it is the unsung participants of society who are its greatest heroes. The engineers, the teachers, the technicians, the waste-managers, those who work in food services, janitorial staffs, and such who are worthy of the most praise and recognition.

“If we must employ the skill of Captain Rossi, then employ it we will,” Vurawn says, barely three shades above demanding.

_Perhaps the words of the Vantos’ have struck him more than he intended to allow._

_The Mandalorian inclines his head, the flicker of heat from his neck increasing. He is frustrated, perhaps angered. Perhaps insulted…_

“Fine,” he says, “but if this goes south, _I_ call the shots.”

Vurawn nods once, then holds out his arm. “We have an accord, then?”

The Mandalorian looks to the outstretched hand with no small aura of contempt for a moment before clasping his forearm. “We do.”

From behind them, Ezra huffs out a sigh and claps his hands together once. “So, were are we most likely to find her?”

~*~

Din really, _really_ has an ugly feeling about this particular alley and his fingers curl into the currently empty carrier around his chest. The child is with Bridger, but he still doesn’t know enough about the man to trust him.

 _Hells_. It’ll be a hot day on Hoth when Din trusts _either_ of them.

He still doesn’t know what to make of the Chiss. He’d heard tales of a few of Vurawn’s kind who swore the Creed, but that had been _millennia_ ago. Since then, all he had ever heard was myths and legends and fairy tales that parents told their naughty children to scare them into obedience. Knowing what to believe was next to impossible.

“You do not trust me,” Vurawn says flatly. “Why?”

“You mean aside from the fact that you’re an Imp?” Din scoffs. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

_The audacity-_

But Din bites his tongue. He may not _trust_ him, but he does _need_ him. And Bridger. So he really doesn’t have much of a choice at the moment.

He does, however, decide to break the silence. “When those people gave you the stuff for the memorial… You don’t have any intention of actually keeping your word, do you?”

He sees Vurawn’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly and his fingers hold the wheel a little tighter.

_Ah. That’s one myth that holds some element of truth._

“I do,” Vurawn bites out, “Just not in the manner they assume I shall.”

Din tips his head a little, intrigued, but the man does not elaborate.

So much for breaking the silence.

“When we arrive,” he speaks again after several long moments as he parks the speeder, “I will speak with Captain Rossi and you will not… _phuzumesu.”_

“Interfere,” Din supplies shortly. No, he absolutely does not like anything about what Vurawn wants to do. Hells, he doesn’t even want to _be_ there. There is nothing about the situation that he likes, nothing about it that he trusts…

But it really is his only option. Not the only _good_ option, the only option _at all._

 _“Are you capable of speaking Ahsil?”_ Vurawn asks in Sy Bisti.

“I am.”

Vurawn’s smile is almost invisible, but there is an undeniable glint of mischief in his eyes. “ _Perfect.”_

The cantina is by far one of the most unsettling one he’s ever stepped foot in, and instantly Din feels like Vurawn is serving him up for lunch on a doonium platter for how the patrons eye them. Something in the air makes him feel _slimy_ or like he’s coming seven crimes just by _existing_ in this space. The room reeks of decay and dishonesty and every lowlife piece of-

 _“Do not speak,_ ” Vurawn tells him in broken Mando’a. _“Be still.”_

He really, _really_ wants to retort, but his instincts scream at him to listen. Vurawn knows this place, Din does not.

The Chiss holds the upper hand and Din feels _naked_ without control.

They’re both vulnerable, he thinks with every drop of anxiety in the universe coursing through him.

Finally, after what feels like seven years, Vurawn spots his target and Din follows him all but helplessly to a booth near the back of the establishment where a woman sits with a flagon of _something_ in her hands. She looks like she’s been pulled through each hell and back thrice, but there is an undeniable presence about her that screams military. She has been a woman of some ranking, Din presumes. A rank far higher than _captain_ , as Vurawn had addressed her.

“I presume it is no longer _Captain_ , Filia?” He asks with all the casualty of an old friend, and the woman’s brown eyes widen as if she is seeing a ghost.

 _“_ And I thought you died, _Grand Admiral,_ ” she quips. Clearly, she is not the talking type. “What, in the name the Sixth Son could possibly have _you_ so desperate as to crawl you way _here_? Frankly, I’d ask how you found me but I really _, really_ do not want to know, nor do I want one of your lectures.”

Vurawn takes a seat across from the woman and gestures for Din to follow suit. “We find ourselves in need of a pilot. I am, as of yet, unable to share every detail, but you will be paid well.”

The woman -Rossi- lifts a skeptical brow and leans back in her seat, a look of raw judgement across her face. Din thinks that the face is one of complete understanding of whatever antics this _Vurawn_ wound up in.

And then there’s the bone-numbing thought of working _with_ an Imperial. Din’s fingers curl in and out of fists, partly in anger, partly in anxiety, partly in paranoia. _He should’ve known_.

Vurawn _lied._

Did Bridger know? Had Hondo known? Were the Vantos aware that the Imp they’d asked to deliver a letter to their son’s grave was probably the same Imp that got him killed in the first place?

_And “Grand Admiral”?_

He would have to have words with Vurawn very, _very_ soon.

“…really Thrawn? After all this time, you still just want to see the galaxy tied in knots, don’t you?”

_“Thrawn”?_

So even _that_ was a lie.

And he’d allowed him to care for his _son._ Under supervision, of course, but it was still the _thought_.

 _Thrawn_ said nothing at first, instead choosing to cast a sideways glance at Din. His fingers twitch almost too subtlety to be noticed. “No, that is not, nor has it ever been my intention.”

Din finds what he’s looking for.

_“s-h-e_w-i-l-l_l-i-k-e-l-y_n-o-t_b-e_i-n_a-g-r-e-e-m-e-n-t.”_

_“s-o-u-n-d-s_l-i-k-e_y-o-u-_t-w-o_h-a-v-e_a_h-i-s-t-o-r-y.”_ Din thinks for a moment, thankful in part that he now has something constructive to do with his hands. Then, he adds for good measure- “ _t-h-r-a-w-n._ ”

For all their attempts at subtlety, Rossi still notices. Jerking her head in Din’s direction, she asks, “That your husband or something? Never took you for the settling-down type.”

Din is absolutely sure that he’s going to crack at least one tooth before the end of the day for how firmly he’s clenched his jaw in the past several hours. And truthfully, he expects _Thrawn_ to play into her assumption to whatever benefit he can find.

“No, he is not. Merely a…” he pauses, the little muscles in his cheeks working through the unknown word. “I am assisting him in the completion of a quest set for him by his people.”

Rossi sighs deeply, now casting her gaze between them with her lower lip drawn between her teeth. Din can see the stress of war in her face and the draw of her shoulders, a stress no doubt being relived in her memory now that she faces a former subordinate. She looks to her flagon, swirls the liquid a little, but does not drink. Around them, the stickiness of the cantina almost fades into white noise as she weighs Thrawn’s offer and Din ponders the lies he’s been told.

His gut twists and lurches uncomfortably, but it also settles to trust Thrawn, Imperial or not, in his judgement.

Non-humans don’t just become members of the Imperial Navy, Din thinks bitterly. And they most certainly do not become _Grand Admirals_.

There’s almost too much for him to rationalize and process at one time. And there’s still the matter of the child in Ezra Bridger’s care…

Finally, after quite some time, Rossi dips her head in surrender.

“What’s the cargo?”

This time, Din doesn’t let _Thrawn_ talk for him. “Myself, the admiral… Two more passengers. And no questions asked.”

Rossi considers this for another moment. “And you want to go where?”

“The Unknown Regions,” Din says, effectively cutting _Thrawn_ off again. “I said no questions asked.”

“That’s only if I take the job,” Rossi scoffs. “So what’s in it for me?”

 _They’d managed to buy the freighter without depleting their pockets,_ Din knows, _we could pay well._

“Two now, plus fifteen when we get where we need to go.”

The former Captain’s eyes widen. “Seventeen thousand, eh?” She looks to Thrawn. “You boys must be desperate. But,” she huffs and leans forward, arms crossed on the tabletop. “Piloting’s one thing, getting through the Unknown Regions is another entirely. That space is completely uncharted, and no navicomputer is that advanced.”

“We have an…asset,” Thrawn adds in. “Navigation will not be an issue on this journey.”

It’s Din’s turn to cast a curious glare. Clearly, the statement has done nothing to quell Rossi’s curiosity, either.

“Where’s this ship of yours docked?”

“Meet us at these coordinates in one hour,” Thrawn explains as he produces a slip of flimsi from his pocket and passes it to her. “And tell no one of your employment.”

~*~

They’re barely into the alley when Thrawn finds his back being slammed into a wall with great force and a vibroblade at his neck. How he’d missed these encounters…

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” the Mandalorian says darkly.

 _His voice holds no small amount of anger, perhaps frustration. Perhaps…rage… Distrust_.

“I’m gonna ask you some questions and you’re going to answer with the _complete truth_.”

Thrawn inlines his chin just a little, perhaps with more contempt than he intended, but keeps his voice even. “Go on.”

The Mandalorian’s grip on his collar does not waver. “What’s your name?”

“When I first offered my name, it was not a lie,” Thrawn explains, “I was _born_ Kivu’raw’nuru, and your people call me _Vurawn_ for simplicity’s sake. Chiss names are far too complex for the human vocal structure to properly dictate-“

“Cut the krayt spit,” the Mandalorian hisses, “Why did she call you _Thrawn_ if that’s not your name?”

“But it is.” Thrawn lifts his brow, “I was adopted into House Mitth when I was still young, and my name became _Mitth’raw’nuruodo._ ”

_His body heat rises and pools near his chest and neck. This is how the human body responds to anger…_

_“_ And the “Grand Admiral” part? Does Ezra know?”

_The Mandalorian’s voice has become louder, more coarse even through the modulation. Rage is a common ingredient in a Manaldorian. This one is no different. Reason will not be his logic._

“Ezra Bridger is the cause of our unintentional exile to this world,” Thrawn says cautiously. This is s story for Ezra to tell. “He was once a member of the rebellion cell which brought down my fleet over Lothal nearly nine years ago. The fleet I commanded as Grand Admiral of the ISD _Chimaera_.”

_The Mandalorian growls. It is a low noise, likely imperceptible to human ear. Rage, indeed._

“How’d a non-human make it so far?” He snaps. “The Empire’s the most xenophobic organization I’ve ever seen.”

He really is getting tired of the interrogation. The Mandalorian is only getting the information because Thrawn is utterly unwilling to put up an unnecessary fight- truthfully, the man is quite terrible at the art.

“That answer is a complicated one, indeed, Mandalorian,” Thrawn warns. “If you must know, I was placed there are a spy. My loyalties are to my people and my people alone. I acted in such a manner during my tenure as to collect information of Lesser Space with every intention of returning to my people as quickly as I could.”

The Mandalorian snorts.

_Eli once called the reaction one of “dry amusement”. Perhaps he is currently amused…_

_He chooses to lower the blade and return it to its sheath, despite the reluctance in his hand. Perhaps an armistice can be reached…_

“Ezra can confirm my credibility, Mandalorian,” Thrawn adds. “However, I feel obligation to point out the hypocrisy in your accusations of dishonesty.”

The Mandalorian’s eyes surely widen under his helm. “Excuse me?”

“You are aware of both my birth and legal names, including variations shared only with my closest friends and family, and yet,” Thrawn tips his head a little to the side. “I do not yet know yours.”

_The musculature of his neck tightens, the first in Thrawn’s shirt also tightens, curling deeper into the fabric._

“I am a Mandalorian,” he says sourly. “That’s all you need to know.”

Thrawn sighs. “My people will demand a name, and they will likely not be kind of it. To be named is to have a soul, Mandalorian. As I am sure you understand.”

_He loosens his grip on the tunic, but does not make any move to step away._

“Then I’ll tell _them_.”

~*~

The trip to the docks is silent, filled with a thick tension that Ezra couldn’t cut through with his sabre. There’s a renewed animosity, almost violent hostility, now simmering between the Mandalorian and Thrawn, rolling off of their bodies in heavy waves. It’s suffocating Ezra, and no doubt also the child who occupies his lap. He still can’t believe that Master Yoda _procreated_. The thought itself makes him queasy.

The kid is cute, though.

Cute, and far stronger with the Force than Ezra thinks anyone is aware. He just seems more content to use his power to obtain snacks. Typical for a toddler, of course. Something Ezra wants to keep instilled in the child as long as he can. He already senses the horror the little creature has seen. The torment. The wars. His eyes are still too big and he has yet to learn to speak… He is still a child, and children are to be protected at all costs. Thankfully, a viewpoint he shares with Thrawn. He is less sure about the Mandalorian.

Ezra rests his hand atop the child’s head and closes his eyes, thinking. Sensing. The child’s energy is something between calm and eager, masking something much, much darker. Ezra flinches, but does not readily move his hand. The child seems more than aware of the risks they are all about to take, of the sacrifice Ezra may very well be making in the coming days. He is… somber. A tiny hand wraps around Ezra’s free hand a small blossom of warmth flicks across his nerves. He smiles.

“Don’t worry, little buddy,” he soothes. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

The child coos softly, leaning into the touch a little more.

“When we get to the Ascendancy, there’s gonna be lots of little people there like you and me, and you’ll be safe with them, I promise.” He expects Thrawn to speak to his favor again, claiming that children are of utmost importance to the Chiss and that they are guarded at all costs. And those gifted with the Force, with what the Chiss call the “Sights”… they are the most guarded secret of the Ascendancy, of the Chiss people. If one intends to harm a Sighted child, then one must be prepared to feel the wrath of an entire people and a military force of legend.

Yes, the child will indeed be safest within the Ascendancy. And if what he senses from the child and the Mandalorian’s thoughts and memories is in any way true, the remnants of the Empire are already hot on their heels.

Ezra held the child close, inhaling deeply through his nose. The docks are finally coming into his line of sight, and he catches a glimpse of the _Gozanti_ they managed to procure. Ezra still wasn’t sure _how_ , but he assumed that the presence of the child had been somewhat of a help.

Who could say no to those cute little eyes?

The Mandalorian finally breaks the painful silence between himself and Thrawn, speaking in a language entirely foreign to Ezra’s ears. Whatever it is, Thrawn hesitates for a moment before nodding stiffly, then adds another thought. Ezra looks back to the child, who has finally fallen asleep all bundled up in his blankets. Their little party will make quite the sight on the docks, but with the story Thrawn wove, fraught with tragedy and demanding pity, they’ll be perfectly fine.

Ezra’s eyes narrow.

 _Perfectly fine_ if those stormtroopers don’t get to them first.

Thrawn must see them too, because he squares his shoulders and says something else to the Mandalorian. The latter then turns to Ezra, who already has a vague idea of what’s about to be said, under the guise of reaching for a bag. “Carry him in the backpack. Make sure he doesn’t peak out.”

Ezra makes a small grunt of acknowlement and passes him a bag. “Are all the supplies packed?”

“A months’ worth, plus emergency stock,” Thrawn cuts in casually. The tone sounds so strange coming from the man…

Ezra watches with no small degree of amusement as Thrawn all but forces his hand into the Mandalorian’s. Whatever’s happened between those two during their _negotiations_ , it clearly took a turn neither were expecting, but a turn that Thrawn could _use_. And whatever it is, the dock master if buying every second of it. The Mandalorian’s face must be utterly _priceless_.

It only takes a moment for the Mandalorian to accept his fate, almost _leaning closer_ to Thrawn. If he’s trying to sell their act, it appears to be coming on a little too strong. Ezra rolls his eyes and makes his way to the _Gozanti_ with their luggage cart. Their foodstuffs have been stacked on the bottom, with the lightest of the personal bags on top.

Slung over Ezra’s shoulder is the bag containing the child; a rather mournful fate, even if it is just temporary. Checking the docking number on his holopad once more, Ezra begins the long stride to their vessel. With any luck at all, there will be no encounters with the stormtroop-

“This port is restricted property,” the one on the left says. “Only authorized traders of Vanto Shipping and Trading may board these ships.”

Ezra offers them a polite smile. “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I own the ship you’re protecting.” He flashes the datapad, giving the pair a small wink. _Stormtroopers are so painfully easy to manipulate._

They look at each other, then the datapad. It’s easy to sense their disbelief (or perhaps they were insulted at not being informed sooner).

“So can I go now?” Ezra asks, feigning exhaustion over thinly masked nerves. Traveling with Thrawn had taught him a fair bit, but it was rarely enough.

Again, the troopers exchange a glance.

“Go on,” Right says stiffly. “Safe travels.”

Ezra gives a mock salute, flicking two fingers away from his forehead. “And may warrior’s fortune favor you.”

“Thanks, kid.”

 _Maybe not all of them are that bad_.

~*~

Thrawn wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting when he first saw the troopers corner Ezra before he could make it to the _Stardust_. He certainly hadn’t been expecting them to leave him alone and just walk past with a mockery of a salute.

_It is a trick of the mind that only appears to work on the weak willed. It takes great effort on behalf of the Jedi employing the trick, but those afflicted will feel nothing._

With any luck, he’ll be able to drag the Mandalorian and Captain Rossi along and past the guards without interference. He’d very much like to got out of the system without a hitch, thank you very much. Rossi, at least, is in far better spirits than she had been an hour prior. He cannot say the same for the scandalized Mandalorian, whose facial heat is registering flame-hot under his helm. Thrawn knows it’s his fault, but _surely_ the man was not so terribly embarrassed by their ruse? How long had it been since he’d been on the receiving end of any affection, for theatric purposes or otherwise?

“So, how long ago did you pick this one up?” Rossi jerks her head towards the Mandalorian.

Thrawn stifles a groan.

_Her face holds mischief, perhaps humorous malice. She does not bode unkindly, but her tone suggests that she seeks to humiliate…_

_“_ Not long ago,” he answers plainly. “Although, personal relations are quite as the name suggests in both Mandalorian and Chiss culture. It would be improper of us to speak on the matter.”

There are lines even _Thrawn_ won’t cross. This is most definitely one of them.

Rossi makes a small noise through her nose, casting one last look between them before readjusting the duffle slung over her shoulders. “If you’re both happy, I suppose…”

She is not a judgmental woman, not in that sense. Thrawn has known her to offer harsh scoldings and pointless reprimands in the past, but he has also seen her jump to the defense of those under attack for certain life choices.

 _Unfortunately_ , Thrawn thinks bitterly, _she has painfully little tolerance for non-humans, unless that is a matter that has since changed._

Given their current mission, he dearly hopes it has.

An idea strikes him.

“As you are neither Chiss nor Mandalorian,” Thrawn begins, absently tapping the inside of the Mandalorian’s wrist -an unconscious holdover from condition espionage missions with Eli. “I can assume that it is safe to ask if you have found a life-mate?”

_Her facial heat increases significantly, mouth pressing into a thin line. There are soft wrinkles around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Time, and decades spent out of a sun’s radiation, has been kind to her._

_Her shoulders draw back and her back straightens. Something passes across her, perhaps sorrow. Perhaps longing._

“I did,” she says tightly. “They fell at Endor five years ago.”

_The Mandalorian’s hand tightens, likely without his knowledge._

His helm tilts to her as he places his free hand over his heart. “I’m sorry for you loss, Captain.”

“Please,” Rossi says with renewed… _something_. Thrawn can’t quite name it, but it seems to be a uniquely human vocal tone. One that Eli has used many times in a variety of contexts. “Just call me Filia. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long trip for everyone.”

The Mandalorian is the first to respond, albeit hesitantly. The first syllables are strained, and Thrawn assumes that the name he speaks is not nearly as long as it makes it seem. “Di…Din Djarin. It’s good to meet you properly, Filla.”

 _Her eyes soften_.

“Pleasure.” She looks up then, lifting a curious brow. “So, let me get this straight. You two want to get into the _Unknown Regions_ in a virtually unarmed freighter?” Filia’s shoulders drop a little as she stares at Thrawn, almost as if he is a hopeless mess that cannot possibly be dealt with. “Really?”

_Should he be offended? The rational answer is, of course, no._

“The _Stardust_ is equipped for the journey,” he says tersely inwardly grimacing at the thought of the vessel’s unfortunate namesake. “Make no mistake, _Filia_ , we will reach our destination. I have full confidence in the ability of this crew.”


	5. The Officer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 - The Officer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mild tw for tics and stimming based on exactly what/how I was ticcing when I wrote this chapter.  
> \- Please appreciate my crappy internet-generated names. Chiss names are harder to bullshit than my last philosophy essay.

A shudder runs down her spine and releases into a sharp twist of her neck and wrists at the sound of the patrol craft clearing the hangar, and yet another leaves her body through a quick smack against the base of her skull at the deep amber of her uncle’s voice. If she wasn’t careful to mind her tics, Safrin risks gut-checking anyone within arm’s reach.

“Does this assignment disagree with your senses, Cadet?”

The muscles of her neck tighten. “No sir.”

The Commandant -her _uncle-_ sighs deeply, and Safrin winces.

“A little bit sir,” she says slowly. “Yes…”

Commandant Saroki offers a small smile laced with pity before returning to proper posture, eyes searching the distant stars for the conclusion to an unasked question. “You will be reassigned next cycle for the duration of your field op.” A pause. “Perhaps you should have listened to your physicians, Safrin.”

Her gaze falls to her boots and the infernal smudge that she has -as of yet- been unable to remove. “It is my duty to serve the Ascendency, Commandant. And serve I shall.” Safrin’s fingers drum against her thigh, the tiny muscles itching to make sharper gestures. Perhaps assigning her a set of ear muffs and a charric and dropping her into combat might’ve been more productive.

“Military service is not your only outlet for such a desire, Cadet.” Saroki offers. “Join the security force, work planet-side. Take up a part-time position and focus your residual energy elsewhere. In the arts, perhaps. You have a keen eye for such things, and ears utterly unbefitting service aboard a _Nightdragon_.”

Safrin elects to overlook the offered slight. In truth, she has more than once deeply considered the options he lays before her, but each time abandons it as a dull ache sets in, calling her weak for trying to flee. She _belongs_ aboard a military vessel, she can _feel_ it. Taharim had offered her the chance to improver her physical prowess, and she had taken advantage, even surpassing many of her classmates in her exams. “You believe me to be unfit as an officer, then?”

“I do not.” Saroki sighs through his nose, then falls silent. “In that, however, I do not believe you to be suited for work in a hangar bay.” He pauses, no doubt thinking of how to word his next sentences. Something else Safrin chooses to ignore.

Her jaw twitches, stiffens, and the muscles draw the bone back, making her ears pop uncomfortably. She works out the cramp, mulling over her uncle’s words. It takes a moment and a few stiff coughs to clear her throat, but Safrin finds her voice.

“Then reassign me aboard _this_ vessel.” She looks up to Saroki, although he is barely taller, with defiance and all the stubbornness of an Ufsa. “I have been cleared by the Academy to serve in a number of positions, including-“

“That is enough, Ufsa’fri’nona,” Saroki hold up a hand to silence her. “You will be assigned as I see fit, and that is my final statement on the matter. I suggest you prepare your travel bags, and return your questis and code bars to Admiral Theliva before the end of your shift.”

Her ears pop again, and Safrin pulls her lower lip between her teeth. If she bites it off, she bites it off. “Yes sir.”

~*~

She’ll hunt down the admiral after dinner, Safrin decides. Perhaps by then her hands will have stopped shaking long enough for her to turn over the tablet and bars without dropping them.

The young man tending the galley’s ordering station flashes his usual friendly smile the moment she’s within his line of sight, perpetually thrilled by the sight of another being.

“Cadet Safrin! Pleasure seeing you here again.” She doesn’t know his name, but assumes he’s from Rentor or another one of the Asendency’s backwater worlds for how thickly accented his voice is. “What fancies you on fine this evening?”

Safrin can only smile sadly, fingers still twitching. “Something spicy, I guess.” He gives her a look, and she thinks for a moment. “Make me wish I’d never been born.”

He laughs, a deep-chested sound that dares to force a smile onto Safrin’s face. “Ah, sure can.” He then turns his head and yells something over his shoulder, most likely chef’s slang for the cadet’s death-wish of an order. “Table seven’s open, I’ll have it sent out when it’s done.”

Safrin dips her head in gratitude and makes her way to the table. She’s barely seated herself before a little jolt rushes to her fingertips. They snap, and her palm collides with the side of her head with a click of her tongue. She ducks her head in the tic’s wake, trying to shrink from the startled and judging eyes of those occupying the dinning room. Safrin sits on her hands, hopping it will stop at least the more violent tics from showing their ugly faces. The last thing she needs on her final night aboard the _Lighthope_ is to flick her dinner into the hair of some unsuspecting officer.

Eating in the galley isn’t a common occurrence for her, and it doesn’t take long for her to rememberer why. The sound of a dozen full tables’ worth of fingers tapping against glasses and cutlery clinking against plates and far too many conversations at all vocal levels invade every crevice of her senses, and the occasional flicker of reflected light caught on a spoon or knife makes her flinch. It doesn’t take long for her arm to jerk from under her rear and snap up into the air above her head and shake a few times before patting her head again. She’s sitting on her hands again before she can even blink.

“Cadet Ufsa’fri’nona,” comes a voice from beside her. “Is everything okay?”

Safrin’s first instinct is to snap to attention, but the impulse is misunderstood and her shoulders shoot to her ears as her hands curl into fists. _Then_ she rises to attention.

“Vice Admiral Theliva,” she squeaks with all the dignity of a stuffed wampa. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you arriving.”

The admiral, she knows, is a kind man who does not pass judgement lightly. “No need for that, I should have made my approach clearer.” Theliva looks at her vacated seat. “At ease, Cadet.”

She obeys, once again sitting on her hands, but her blood still turns to stone in her veins. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

Theliva takes the seat across from her and relaxes against the backrest. “Commandant Usfa’ro’kirito spoke with me earlier about arranging your transfer to Ascension Outpost over Bogo Rai.” He speaks too plainly, and it twists her stomach in knots. But his eyes are soft and hold no malice. Still…

“The Commandant has deemed me unfit for duty aboard a starship, sir.” Safrin swallows the shame bubbling in her throat and forces her voice to steady. “Ascension Outpost is a wise assignment.”

The admiral lifts a brow, an expression she is learning indicates curiosity or beckoning. “Do you agree with that decision, cadet?”

“I-“ She tries to hold eye-contact, she truly does, but her hands betray her again. Nerves are worse than anything else in triggering her ticcing, and a jolt of misused energy snaps her fingers and sharply taps the back of her neck again. “I believe it is best, yes.”

_His body heat is lower than normal… this is… relaxed? Anxious?_

Theliva draws in a breath and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s examining her face the way she examines his, and Safrin chews on the inside of her cheek.

“The…” She searches for the right words. Anything short of academic does nothing but make her sound whiny, and there is no place for that aboard a CEDF vessel. “There are a lot of stimuli aboard a starship that… well, that disagree with me.”

“Aboard a _Nightdragon_ , or in the hangar bay?” Theliva asks gently.

Safrin looks at the glass of water in front of her as if it has offended her mother’s dignity.

The admiral sighs with no small amount of finality. He’s made up his mind about _something_. “Well, how about you and I make a deal?”

Her eyes shoot up to him. _An admiral? Make a deal with a cadet?_ It was unheard of. At least, to Safrin’s knowledge it was.

“Commandant Saroki needs my permission to reassign you, and I don’t feel it’s fair to change your assignment over something so trivial in the grand scheme of things.”

Safrin makes a face, and the muscles twitch for a moment. The admiral pays it no attention, simply continuing his thoughts.

“So, here’s what I think.” Theliva folds his hands on the table between them. “You’re a damn good cadet and you have a passion for this, and I’m not letting anyone stuff that passion and talent in a corner on some listening outpost because they can’t look past a few… You call them tics, right?”

Safrin nods and he continues.

“Because they can’t look past a few tics.” The Admiral takes his questis from his pocket and keys it on before tapping away for a few moments. “We’re going to change your assignment, of course. If working in the hangars is bothering you, then you’re not going to be able to work to your full potential.” He huffs, almost sourly, and keeps tapping. “But you’ll still be aboard the _Lighthope_ for the remainder of your field op.”

Safrin has taken to folding and unfolding one of the napkins. “Sir?”

Theliva, satisfied with whatever he had been doing, tucks the questis back in his pocket. “You’ll report to Commander Zicher at seven-standard tomorrow morning for first shift on the bridge.” He smiles. “We’ll find you a section that works best for you and that you work best in. I promise.”

The Admiral, like the rest of her people, does not take promises lightly, nor does he break them. Safrin’s eyes widen and her hands flick and flap -for lack fo all better terms- in the space in front of her in excitement.

“Admiral, I-“ Safrin tucks her face in her hands with a small squeak and leans forward until the backs of her hands touch the table. She stays that way for a moment, collecting herself, before straightening. “Thank you, sir.”

_We’re not going to cry. We’re not going to cry, we’re not going to cry-_

~*~

The bridge was, in hindsight, a truly horrendous idea that lasted barely a day. But Theliva is absolutely determined to keep the cadet aboard until she has to return to Taharim. But, for as disastrous as the shift had been for her, Zicher had come to him with one very interesting observation. The cadet was _brilliant_ with patterns and numbers and had grown increasingly stressed at the way files on the bridge were organized (the cause of her first panic spell).

Theliva sits with his cheek propped up on his fist, absently working his way through the third book in a series he’d recently stumbled across. He’d sent for Safrin twenty minutes prior, but it would be pointless to hamper her for tardiness -her quarters, after all, are on the other side of the ship from his office.

He’s on the fifth chapter when the hatch opens and Safrin scoots into his office. Somehow, she manages to display perfect discipline despite her shyer mannerisms. Theliva smiles, keys his questis off, and waves at the vacant chair across the desk. “Cadet. Good to see you again.”

“Admiral Mitth’eli’vant,” she dips her head in acknowledgment before sitting. “I understand Commander Zicher reported the day’s outcome?”

There is no small amount of hesitance and something soberingly close to shame in her voice.

“She did, yes.” Theliva opens the report summary on his questis and scrolls down to the list of recommended divisions and positions Zicher had made. “She recommended several alternative stations based on the strengths she noticed in your performance.”

 _Always better to lead with positives and turn the negatives into areas of improvement_.

She looks surprised, as if she’d been expecting a reprimand.

“Sir?”

“She noticed you showed a particular liking of extremely specific tables of organization.” He skims through the summary of _that_ particular incident and laughs to himself. Once in a blue moon, he had been the same way. But Myomar was long since in his past, and now it was time to move on to helping a new generation of warriors find their callings. “So, we talked for a little bit and if you’re alright with it, you’ll be working with supply tomorrow.”

Safrin is looking everywhere except at him; at the sculpture Ar’alani gifted him when he was promoted to Admiral, at the wall cluttered with the artwork his daughter had tapped up over the years, at the framed puzzle that had taken himself and Zircher all of three years and endless cups of caf to finish (he’d tried to pass it off to her, but he’d found it all but welded to that particular wall the first day he’d been in command). But she was still facing him through her posture, and he assumed it was about as attentive as she could get.

Theliva gently prods her back into reality. “Does that sound like a good plan to you?”

She nods without hesitation, eyes snapping back to him. “When will I report and to whom?”

“Lieutenant…” He checks the roster one more time to be sure. “…Rehlia. If you’re alright with this, I’ll let him know to expect you at seven-standard the day after tomorrow.”

The cadet visibly deflates. “Will I be reporting to the bridge again tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Theliva assures her. “You still need time to adequately complete your supplemental work from the academy and to prepare for your next assignment. I think two bridge shifts is more than enough to confidently say it’s not your area of interest.”

Safrin opens her mouth to speak when the sharp buzz of a standing alert cuts through the office. Her hands are over her ears before Theliva registers the noise, face scrunched in near-agony, and he swears under his breath.

“Medic to the bridge!” He shouts into his com. “Bring an isolation pack!” Theliva knees in front of her cautiously. _This isn’t much different from how Un’hee reacts to loud things…”_ Safrin, we need to go to the bridge, okay? There’s a medic on their way with something to help you. Can we do that?”

She nods, the motion all but invisible among her compacted posture, and Theliva tucks her under his arm. Sure as the mons rise, the medic is waiting beside Zicher when the pair arrives, bag in hand and waiting for further instruction. The man nods at the admiral, then opens the bag and takes Safrin gently by the elbow. Theliva lingers for a moment, just to make sure that she responds well to the headset, before making his way to the command console.

“Alert status?”

Commander Irizi’che’ri stiffens for a moment. “Unknown vessel inbound just past Celwis headed for the Vaagari corridor.”

He sighs. They’d been sent out along the boarders as a deterrent and warning, as a way for the Aristocra to puff its chest out at potential enemies. But these systems had been quiet for years. Theliva hadn’t expected to run into trouble.

“Lower alert to level four and set course for Cormit’s sixth moon.” His fingers lace together behind his back. This is the first time they’ve trusted him to a command without Ar’alani looming over his shoulder. “Inform Admiral Tro’owmis of the change in course… And that we may be calling Ar’alani’s fleet for backup if things get messy.” Theliva settles into the command chair with lingering unease. It’s been several months, but he still hasn’t wrapped his head around the fact that the _Lighthope_ is _his_ ship.

“Course set, Admiral,” Lieutenant Rasimk calls over their shoulder. “Ready on your mark.”

Theliva looks to the comm station and the fresh-off-the-line tech. The _Lighthope_ had picked him up last week with Cadet Safrin, and so far, Theliva still isn’t sure how Taharim produced both _Mitth’raw’nuruodo_ and this kid. He’s managing… barely. “Ensign Kimikga?”

“Messages sent, sir!”

“Messages?” Theliva emphasizes the plural. “Ensign…”

Kimikgo shrinks. “Yes Admiral! The status update to Admiral Tro’owmis and the request to Admiral Ar’alani.”

Theliva’s jaw tightens for a moment before he remembers how important the joint is for speaking. “Ensign Remowa, relieve Ensign Kimikgo and inform Ar’alani that we do not require her assistance _yet_. Thank you.”

“Sir? Should I make the jump to hyperspace?”

He’d nearly forgotten about Rasimk. “Engage, Lieutenant.”

Zicher’s fingers curl around the back of the command chair, drumming lightly against the cushion. “Permission to speak freely, Admiral?”

 _That’s new_. “In my ready room. Senior Captain Suoteru, you have the bridge. Commander?” He nods towards the hatch, Zicher hot on his heels. “What’s wrong?”

The commander fiddles with a loose thread on her sleeve, but does not break eye-contact or posture. “I do not believe that we will find what we expect on the other side of this chase, Theliva.”

“Explain?” She has his attention now, and she _knows_ it.

Zicher turns her foot out and takes the first step of many, now pacing about the small room. “You are aware that my Sight did not fully fade, as it does for many.”

“Yes.”

“And that Sky-Walkers always are able to sense each other?”

“Of course.”

“And navigators of other species?”

“Un’hee reminds me constantly.”

Sicher inhales sharply and pushes the breath back out her nose. “There is a Sky-Walker at the end of this trail. Many of us. But they are not navigators or Sky-walkers, yet they are still Sighted and it is cause for alarm and-“

“Che’ri,” Theliva cuts into her increasingly frantic ramble. “Whatever the outcome, we will be ready.”

She gives him a look of utter disapproval, though it is obscured with genuine dismay. “I want to trust that, but I don’t think I can.”

He is about to speak again when his comm beeps. “Theliva. What the matter?”

 _“Dropping out of hyperspace in five minutes, sir,”_ Suoteru’s voice crackles through the little speaker. “ _Admiral Tro’owmis has acknowledged the course change, and Admiral Ar’alani is on standby with her fleet._ ”

Theliva smiles tightly, squaring his shoulders. “Thank you, Captain.” Turning to Zicher, the smile becomes more relaxed. “Don’t worry, Commander. I trust your instincts.”

_Maybe his first command won’t be so hellish…_


	6. The Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 - The Spy

Irizi’che’ri had settled nicely into civilian life, thanks to the very vocal support of a certain Admiral and one very stubborn Mitth who had gone toe to toe with the Irizi representatives. But a little rivalry tends to go a long way, she discovered, and the Irizi were quick to cut the Mitth off at the pass. _The seven moons would sooner crumble before we let you earn another exemplar to your name_. Less than three months passed between the time her Sight faded beyond use and her first moments at the Irizi homestead as a Trial Born. She’d been welcomed with what she read as genuine warmth -Zicher was certain that she smiled more in that first month alone than she had in the rest of her life until that point. And when it came time for her to attend secondary school, she knew at least six Blood siblings who she could seek out with questions over her homework and expect clear and patient assistance from.

She still remembered the day Ar’alani stormed back to the Homestead with all the rage of a great ice storm, angrier than she’d ever been. It took a great deal of prompting, but Zicher found the same anger bubbling in herself when Ar’alani spat out the word _exile._ How _dare_ they? Until that moment, She’d had no real plans for attending any sort of technical school or academy after Secondary. She liked the arts, but not enough to make a career of it, and all it had taken was one elective course in software programming for her to completely abandon the idea of working in application development.

But that _word_ …

Exactly one month before she was scheduled to graduate from Secondary, Zicher had marched straight into the CEDF’s recruitment office in Csaplar to collect any and all information she could get her hands on about placement testing for each academy within the Ascendancy. Four years later, she graduated from Taharim with scores that _almost_ rivaled Mitth’raw’nuru and Irizi’ar’alani’s. _Almost_.

It was a very good day, indeed.

Now, fingers drumming anxiously on the back of Vice-Admiral Mitth’eli’vant’s command chair, Senior Commander Zicher counts the minutes until they fall out of hyperspace. He reminds her much of Mitth’raw’nuru, and perhaps that is why she trusts his judgement and character as much as she does. And… he _understands_. His own child was a Sky-Walker, and that makes it _that_ much easier to approach him when the remnants of her Sights flare up and poke at her until she heeds its warning. She’s not sure how many times its saved their lives already, but it is a fair number indeed.

Like this moment in particular.

With three minutes until the drop, Theliva orders the _Lighthope_ ’s barriers raised and their salvos prepped to full armament. With one minute left, he stands, hands folded behind his back and shoulders drawn, and Zicher follows suit at her own station to his right.

“Dropping out of hyperspace in three…”

She braces herself against the console.

“Two…”

Theliva does the same.

“One.”

In an instant, the swirls of lightspeed falter and Cormit’s sixth moon in staring them in the face. Zicher’s stomach lurches with the ship. It’s never as smooth without a Sky-Walker, but they had not been assigned one for their current duties. In her eyes, it was for the best. Moons, it was her own momish that had started making those sorts of decisions for the fleets. More vocal advocates and a small uprising by the now-Great House Kivu had created and seated one Mitth’ali’astov in the title of something very political-sounding that dealt with securing the rights and managing the well-being of Sky-Walkers prior to, during, and after their service.

That had been an interesting month and a half. She was still thanking the stars that she’d been off-world at the time. From what they had been told upon arrival, there had been a minor political civil war that involved more than one family “throwing hands” in the general direction of the Nuruodo and Sabosen families.

But still, the transitions from hyperspace to normal are always smoother with a Sky-Walker.

“Any signs of the ship?”

Zicher wrinkles her nose, trying to remember _which_ Kivu is on scanners that shift. The _Lighthope_ had somehow -perhaps mistakenly, perhaps simply to get on their nerves- been assigned a set of triplets and it was still utter hell trying to tell them apart. She _can_ tell their voices apart, but only because Kivu’rin’amari speaks with a stutter and Kivu’aki’namon has a distinct lisp in every language _except_ Sy Bisti. Zicher isn’t sure about the third one.

And they all hold the same rank, making everything _that_ much worse.

“They’re still on the same course, sir.”

 _Ah._ Lieutenant Vurinam, then.

To her left, Theliva’s jaw tightens every so slightly. “When are they projected to arrive in the Corridor?”

There’s a small clicking and clacking as he pokes around on the console, and Zicher is convinced she can hear him suck in a breath though his teeth. If it was an officer with more experience, she might be nervous. She is not.

“Ten minutes, Admiral,” Vurinam says definitively. “They are still sub-lightspeed, but analysis theorizes that they will make their final jump within the next five to seven minutes. We have an estimated trajectory, but it will not account for last-minute course corrections.”

All three triplets may be shy and fresh out of the Academy, but they’re tack sharp when they find trust in their voices.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Theliva acknowledges. “Keep a close eye on any changes they make. Ensign Remowa, open all frequencies and listen for anything that might indicate a meeting point with other vessels or anything out fo the ordinary. If there’s more than one ship, I want to know about it.”

The ensign, already ears deep in work, flashes Theliva an affirmative hand gesture and a quick “Aye, sir!” before digging in. They really need to be promoted soon. Zicher will take it up with Theliva if they make it out of this unscathed.

He sighs, much in the way only his species _can_ , and looks to Zicher. It’s quite possible that she’ll never understand how his kind can make such _warm_ faces. Not physically warm, although there’s a very good reason for _that_ particular translation, but warm in emotion. It’s unfairly reassuring, and _Zicher_ is supposed to be the older one, the momish making faces to sooth those around her.

But Theliva has a unique touch of empathy that is equal parts steadying and encouraging, as the warmth in his face slowly shifts to something not-quite-mischievous. He likes to -to use his own words- “kill his enemies with kindness”, a tactic that Zicher found quite alarming and frighteningly effective. Theliva would lure them in, under the genuine pretext of seeking peace, but snapping them up like a rock-viper if said enemy became even the slightest bit hostile. In hindsight, it probably left their enemies with more mental scarring than physical.

“Vessel has made the jump!” Vurinam calls out, voice nearly a less-than digified squeak. “They’ll enter the Corridor in thirty seconds!”

Theliva is quick on the draw, “Mid-Captain Zienoshi, divert fifty per-cent power from the electrostatic barrier to gravity well. Rasmik, ease us into mid orbit around the moon. Let’s see if we can catch them before they get too confident.”

Zicher _absolutely_ sees mischief in his strange eyes (it’s unsettling that she can _constantly_ see exactly where he’s looking and that they change shape a little when the light around him shifts). They’ve served together for long enough and she served long enough with Mitth’raw’nuru to know what barely-contained confidence and excitement looks like.

But...

That twinge is still settled in her gut and there’s an ache at the back of her skull. The Chaos is screaming at her, repeating the same words over and over in her ears. Zicher’s fingertips dig into her palms as she leans on the console for support. The Callings are just as strong now as they were when she was a child, still navigating warships and diplomatic vessels. She’d nearly forgotten how loud they could be.

“...incoming!”

“Brace for gravitational impact!”

Zicher is ripped from her own mind as she scrambles to hold her stance. Just as lowers herself into a standing crouch, the _Lighthope_ trembles under her feet as it catches the ship.

Remowa is already ordering the captured vessel to identify itself in every language known to the Ascendancy, but there is no reply that they can understand.

“Admiral, we have a problem!”

Theliva’s at the console almost before she realizes he’s moved, and a thought hits her like a stone stick.

_“Eli, Basic!”_

The admiral’s face is defined in the gravity of her words, and he leans over Remowa’s shoulder. “Unidentified vessel, this is Vice Admiral Mitth’eli’vant of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force. You are trespassing unauthorized into Chiss Ascendancy Space. Lower your shields and surrender.”

 _Zicher isn’t sure she’s ever heard his voice that become dark_.

“ _This is Sa-...ren of clan....n, house...zsla...”_

Remowa winces as static interference undoubtedly shrieks through the headset. “I can’t make out what it’s saying, sir. There’s too much interference and I cannot make out the words. I’m sorry, sir.”

Theliva pats the back of the chair gingerly. “Don’t stress about it. See what you can do to clear the frequency, let me do the talking.”

“Ye, sir.”

Theliva repeats his statement, adding a thinly veiled threat that might’ve seen him under the Syndicure’s scrutiny if they caught wind of it.

“ _Ve..sel... We...unarmed.”_

The admiral twists to address Vurinam. “Lieutenant, confirm?”

The Kivu taps away at the console for a moment. “The vessel is equipped with a standard armament for a transport of the size. Two surface cannons and a salvo tube. All inoperable. They are -in a practical sense- unarmed. Though, I cannot detect any personal weapons on-board.”

Theliva draws in a long breath. “That’s fine, Lieutenant, thank you.”

Zicher nods once at him, then turns to Captain Suoteru. “Disarm salvos and engage tractor beam. Bring our guests aboard.”

“Unidentified vessel, this is Vice Admiral Mitth’eli’vant of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force,” He repeats. “You are being brought aboard the Nightdragon _Lighthope_ for questioning. I suggest you disarm yourselves and surrender peacefully.”

She keys open a line to the onboard marine barracks. “Captain Meece'owaza'ruzeo, this is Commander Irizi’che’ri, I need a nine-man to Hanger Bay Six. Admiral Theliva and I will be joining shortly.”

_“This is Captain Ceowazar, Bridge. I copy. Detail specs?”_

Zicher sets her jaw. “Unidentified vessel has been unable to effectively communicate its intentions. Admiral Theliva has ordered her brought aboard.”

_“Life forms?”_

She looks to Vurinam, who takes a peek at the console. “Unknown, Commander. I read two, but it’s impossible to determine their species.”

“Two of unknown species and lethality, Captain,” she repeats. “Be ready for anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re daft enough to come out charrics’ blazing.”

_“Copy, Commander. On our way. Ceowazar out.”_

“Admiral, Captain Meece'owaza'ruzeo is en-route to Hanger Six with a nine-man escort,” Zicher reports as he returns to his console.

Theliva nods, acknowledging her, and orders Suoteru to _keep his bridge intact_. Once they’re off the bridge (with Theliva’s personal guards in tow), he sighs deeply through his nose. “Thoughts and observations, Commander?”

Again her nose scrunches. “Unsure. They likely have hailed from Lesser Space, although I do not believe they are truly lost.”

Theliva’s brows draw together. “How so?”

“They are searching, but for what I cannot determine.” She pauses, allowing the Callings to echo in her skull again. “But they are not here by accident or chance.”

“I see.”

They fall into step and an uncomfortable silence, Zicher still unsure how to phrase the rest of her thoughts. They’re jumbled, garbled. More pictures and fleeting sensations than words. It’s frustrating, even after all this time.

“You said you could sense a Navigator among the crew,” Theliva, thankfully, beats her to the subject. “What can you sense now?”

She thinks for a moment. It is not a Navigator in the exact sense that a Navigator _is_ , but there is absolutely someone with the Sights aboard the ship. “One of the life-forms is Sighted, and very much so. I have not ever felt a presence like this.”

“Dangerous?”

Zicher shakes her head. “I don’t believe they intend to harm us.” She reconsiders, “At least not the Sighted One. The other, I cannot say.”

He nods, but does not immediately react otherwise. He is much like Mitth’raw’nuru in that sense, she thinks. Zicher remembers the time she served with him, how he never spoke unless he had thought out every possible response and made sure to select the best once for his audience. He might say the same thing to her and then to Admiral Ar’alani, but the words would be nothing alike. Mitth’eli’vant is the same. Zicher cannot help but wonder if they ever met.

~*~

Cold is not something that seems to outwardly bother the Admiral, although as theystride deeper into the even-colder-than-everywhere-else hanger, Zicher catches the shiver that runs down his spine out of the corner of her eye. With the cold spell over, Theliva straightens his posture so much that she thinks he may tip over.

Much like the marines standing in perfect rows as the offending ship is brought into the hanger and dropped gently on its outstretched landing gear. They look like statues, if statues had the physical prowess of a wampa and were coiled like springs, ready to pounce at a millisecond’s notice. The one on the far right center is striking to look at, though...

She tucks that thought away for later, under the bold assumption that she’ll ever have a chance to think on it again.

Captain Ceowazar front and center as Theliva and Zicher approach, and with a single well-placed stomp, the formation breaks into two clean lines of five behind the Admiral and Commander.

 _Marines…_ Zicher sighs. They scare her just a little bit. _Which is most definitely the point_.

Beside her, Theliva clears his throat. “Unknown vessel, you are under the jurisdiction of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force,” he booms. Up until that exact moment, Zicher hadn’t thought him capable of raising his voice so much. “Y _ou are under arrest under charge of willful trespassing into restricted space, by order of Vice Admiral Mitth’eli’vant and Supreme Admiral Ar’alani. Lower your gangplank and exit the vessel with your hands on your head.”_

The muscles in Zicher’s throat tighten and she casts a glare at the admiral, who simply smiles and winks.

Behind them, the sound of charrics being cocked makes her twitch and effectively distracts from the awful noise of the ship’s hatch lowering. It does not, however, quell the taste of bile rising in her throat or the dread gripping her stomach.

The Callings are persistent, loud enough now to drone out the sound of an overheating hyperdrive core. Zicher overcompensates, her back stiffening beyond all rational physiology and her jaw held shut so tightly that she risks snapping the bones. She doesn’t take the risk of swallowing; any movement at all might send the universe spiraling into total annihilation and would bring the full reign of Hell upon them.

So no, Commander Irizi’che’ri would absolutely _not_ be so much as _breathing_ for at least an hour.

Both beings are colorful, Zicher thinks. Though, she trusts the one on the left significantly less than the one on the right. Left Colorful One is wearing armor and a helmet, and although it is roughly the size of a marine’s arm, she does worry about the weapons strapped to its legs. Her mind doesn’t _quite_ know what to do with Right Colorful One, for _she_ is the center of the Callings’ persistence. There might as well be banners and a fanfare for how obvious the Sights linger around Right Colorful One.

Left Colorful One still makes her uneasy. If one of them is to be a threat, it will likely be _that one_.

_The marines’ weapons are raised. Right Colorful One takes no action, and her posture is confusing. But the core temperature of Left Colorful One rises. Is this anger? Fear?_

Zicher bites the inside of her lip as Right Colorful One speaks in the same language that Theliva speaks. She understands the barest minimum of Basic, but she doubts that her skill in the language is beyond that of a toddler, and barely catches every seventh word.

Theliva holds a hand up to silence Right Colorful One and turns to her. “She says her name is Ahsoka Tano, and that they come in peace,” he translates. “Her companion is called Sabine Wren of House Vizsla. They are friends of the missing Sky-Walker who…” He looks back at Right Colorful One, speaks to her, nods, and then returns to the translation. “ _…abducted_ Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo.”

Her throat tightens and she whips back around to face Colorful Ones. “Then why do you come here?” Zicher demands, fists clenched at her sides.

Theliva, bless his patience, translates once more. If Right Colorful One’s species makes the same facial movements that MItth’eli’vant makes, she is offended.

“Master Tano says that there was a conflict… A civil war? Civil war, during which Mitth’raw’nuruodo sought to wipe out the Sky-Walker’s planet, and that the Sky-Walker felt he had little choice as to his course of action.” There is an edge in his voice that Zicher cannot quite place. One more concern onto the pile, apparently. “They have been searching for many years.”

Zicher _glares_. “Why should we help you find he who abducted our brother?” She snaps, enunciating every single syllable with enough venom to kill an entire colony world. 

The admiral sighs and takes a moment to collect himself before relaying the thinly veiled threat to the Colorful Ones’ safety. And as he does, Captain Ceowazar jerks his head towards the ship and two marines break out of their lines, presumably to search the vessel.

Left Colorful One takes _great_ offense to this, drawing what looks like a miniaturized charric and pointing it right at Zicher. Instantly, ten charrics are raised and aimed, cutting Theliva off mid-sentence. Ceowazar barks out an order to lower the weapon, but Left Colorful One does not comply, even when Theliva translates. He sighs, nodding in defeat.

“Captain, bind them and take them to _separate_ holding cells until Ar’alani arrives with her fleet,” Theliva orders sharply. “And Captain?” He calls after Ceowazar, “Treat them well, but we will not be taking this issue lightly.”

There is a very specific gravity in his voice that Zicher isn’t sure she’s heard before. Clearly, it is a day of firsts.

~*~

She finds him in the officer’s mess that evening, head in his hands and on his third -at least, possibly more- cup of caf.

Or, Zicher assumes it’s caf. Knowing her admiral, it may very well be something much stronger dressed up as caf. She can still remember Ar’alani doing the same when she would visit the Homestead. Electing to forgo a formal announcement, Zicher pulls out the opposite chair and drops herself gracelessly into it.

“You’re overthinking whatever you’re thinking about,” she says flatly. All she gets in response is a tired grumble. “Perhaps we can use their knowledge to our advantage, especially if he is traveling with a Sky-Walker.”

In truth, the thought had not occurred to her until nearly three hours after she’d decided to take her anger out on a punching sack. The Colorful One who called herself Ahso’kat’ano claimed to be Sighted, and Zicher would vouch for that on her own life. Further, Colorful One Sokata had told them that Mitth’raw’nuruodo had been taken by _another_ Sky-Walker. And if non-Chiss Sky-Walkers could sense each other like the Chiss could…

Well, it was barely even a half-baked plan, but it was a plan nonetheless.

“Theliva?”

The admiral sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s long past the time he normally retires for the day -his species _can_ , in theory, function on the same sleep-cycle as Chiss, though it does not last long and the quality of waking hours has proven to be very poor from her observations. He needs more sleep, and he is clearly not getting it.

She crosses her arms on the table and leans on them. “I will tell Ar’alani that you have been neglecting your species’ sleeping requirements,” Zicher threatens.

 _This_ captures his attention more fully, and while he looks more alert, he is still exhausted. That much she can see in the way his shoulders have fallen and the bleariness in his eyes. Zicher sighs, and although she is far from physically tired and in need of rest, she is weary. Her face softens. “We will discuss this again _after_ you have rested adequately for your kind, Admiral.” She scoots the chair from the table and stands, holding a hand out to Theliva.

He takes her hand and allows her to tug him to his feet before straightening his uniform. “If Ar’alani arrives before I wake up, come get me. I don’t want to waste a single second in this.”

Zicher shakes her head in fond disapproval. “Nor do I, but a ship and fleet cannot function at the mercy of a sleepy admiral. Besides,” she states, “Ar’alani will not arrive for yet another twenty hours. More than enough time for you to sleep through two of your necessary cycles.”

Theliva laughs at this, thankfully. “I appreciate your concern, Commander.”

“If you will not listen to me, I shall order Remowa to contact Copero to obtain your daughter’s say in the matter.”

The admiral’s jaw tenses, and although there is humor in her tone, he appears to have taken the light-hearted threat _very_ seriously. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t write out Vurinam’s stutter because 1) theyre all speaking Cheunh, 2) I don’t know what Cheunh sounds like, and 3) since I don’t know what it sounds like, I don’t know where to put the stutter.   
> But they’re based on my little sister, who has a stutter and asked if I would ever write a stuttering character.


	7. The Navigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 - The Navigator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW again for derealization/dissociation, blood, discussions of death and mortality, themes of suicide, and brief descriptions of injury

_Souls. A concept often contemplated by the religious, the philosophical, and those who otherwise differ from their society’s norms. What makes a soul? Is it a necessity to the physical body to thrive? Can we exist without one? Where does it manifest? Can it be measured? A soul cannot be weighed by the hands of science, nor can it be judged by any singular theology or philosophy. But then, who is to judge the soul when our lives reach their end? Or does the soul simply find a new form to take?_

Thrawn’s mind is far away from his quarters aboard the _Stardust_ , eyes long since fallen out of focus where they had once rested on the letter and datachip he’d kept tucked in his pocket for the first three days of the journey. It weighed him down, suffocating him and tying his stomach in knots. Part of him wishes they could divert their course to Coruscant so he could find Eli’s grave and honor his memory for his parents.

 _It was all his fault_.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve _done_ something.

But if Eli had stayed…

Thrawn runs his fingers through his hair once more, suddenly hyperaware of the grey that decorated his temples. Eli will still die many, many years before he will, and Thrawn isn’t sure if he’s ready to process that inevitability yet. The idea of Eli in a bed of ice and silks… It’s what haunts his nightmares and dreams in the few moments he is able to find sleep. He tries not to think on it much in his waking hours, knowing that it will destroy the focus that is key in survival. Even now Thrawn has to force his mind elsewhere in spite of the hollowing of his chest and the tightness in his throat.

How long had he known?

Five years? Ten?

 _About five minutes after you met him, you insufferable fool_.

So quite a long time, then.

Thrawn has to temper the urge to throw something very heavy at the nearest wall. Or to punch one. He’s ready been cooped up far too long.

He reaches for the envelope one more time, then hesitates. Perhaps the pain will be dampened if he inspects the dawachip intended for his own memorial first…

_In memorial of Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo._

_Commander of the ISD Chimaera and the Seventh Fleet._

_Born, 19 Selona BBY, Unknown Regions, Died 6 Welona 1BBY, KIA, Lothal_

_Son, Mentor, Beloved Friend and Commander_

_Do not stand at my grave and weep_

_I am not there. I do not sleep._

_I am a thousand winds that blow._

_I am the diamond glints on snow._

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain._

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

_When you awaken in the morning's hush_

_I am the swift uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circled flight._

_I am the soft stars that shine at night._

_Do not stand at my grave and cry;_

_I am not there. I did not die._

So.

He had been wise to regress to his birth name, Thrawn thinks. No telling how many might’ve fainted in shock if they believed _Mitth’raw’nuruodo_ had risen from his grave.

But his thoughts of easing into the pain of Eli’s memorial has proved to be sorely wrong; in considering his own death, Thrawn has only reopened his own self-made wounds of the same nature. He knows Eli is alive and well, he can feel it in an unconscious corner of his mind. He has always known it. But if Eli’s parents received the news of the _Chimaera’s_ defeat, had the Ascendancy? Did Eli know? Did he-

Thrawn can’t form the rest of the thought in any tongue. There’s too much pain that comes with it, but in its place is a new path.

Had Ar’alani granted him the proper period of mourning? Had Eli accepted it? Was his name now carved into the marble in the Halls on Copero? If so, was it below Thrass’s name or beside it? Had Thalias taken Eli to the Halls? Taught him the Skyfell Ritual?

 _Alive and well and no doubt moved on in the decade since_.

Had Eli taken a husband or wife? Did he have children?

With a shaky breath, Thrawn sets aside the datachip and stands.

_Alive and well._

_Two empty beds of ice, buried empty in an unforgiving ground on a world filled with graves_.

_Alive and well…_

~*~

_He can see an island. Barren, green. There are no trees, only an expanse of grass and merciless rock faces. Cliffs that fall and are swallowed in darkness._

_Do you hear it?_

_We need you we need you we need you Comebackpleaseweneedyouweneedyou_

_Warm_

_Coldyouweneedyou_

_comebackcomebackLife_

_De-weneedyouweneedyouweneedyou-ath_

Ezra’s skin is painfully aware of every single recycled atom of air circulating in cargo bay two as he sits with his legs crossed and hands suspended palms-up before him. Each breath sends a new wave of energy across his body in perfect time with his pulse. In theory, this is what an ideal meditation _should_ be. _In practice,_ this is what an ideal meditation looks like.

But he’s shaking. Fingers twitch every fifth breath, then every other breath. The muscles of his core tightens uncomfortably with the strain of staying upright.

_We need you we need you_

_please_

_please!_

_help us we need you_

Ezra’s jaw trembles, back slouching. Air refuses to fill his lungs. Somewhere, someone has their hand around his throat and _squeezes_ until his airway is cut off. His hands fall to his sides and there is no time for his body to compensate for the shift in weight. The _Stardust_ is going down a path it should not be. They are not safe.

_Light_

_We see the island_

_pleasewehelpusneedyou_

_we’re being followed_

_desperate to sleep_

_trustdonottrust_

_we can’t_

By the time his head hits the cold durasteel floor, blood trickles from his nose and ears.

_Darkness_

Across the bay, the child is deep in his own mind, still unaware of his surroundings. “One step at a time”, Ezra had told him. “You must walk before you can run. Be aware of yourself, _then_ learn to be aware of what is around you.”

He does not hear the dull sound of a body hitting the ground.

But he does hear _them_. There are to many little voices all talking to him. He does not know who they are or where they are, only that they _are_. They’re familiar in a way he does not like. It is not a nice feeling. His papa’s hugs are nice feelings. The Blue One speaking has a nice feeling. Small fingers twitch. This is not a nice feeling.

~*~

Light-years beyond the Western Reaches and all but sharing a bed with the Unknown Regions, Yalara is perhaps the farthest from any proper civilization than any other known planet in the galaxy. An impressive feat, given the existence of the other dustballs that Senior Commander Ainija has found herself on. She’s certain that there’s still Jakuu sand in her boots two years later that no droid or machine will ever be able to fully remove.

At least they’ve dropped her on a functional, pristine laboratory station this time, though she understands perhaps every fifth word and the occasional name whenever one of the other… _inhabitants_ opens their mouths around her. She was never good at biological science, maths, or anything of the sort, only logistics and keeping those around her in line.

And so she sits in her office in the eastern wing of the main complex, casting a glare at the smog that surrounds the station like a sheet. It’s terrible, and the droning voice of the Lieutenant stationed aboard the _Eternal_ does nothing but worsen her mood. All the crew ever seems to do is _complain_ about something.

 _“Oh no! A Mandalorian! What ever shall we do?”_ this, “ _We lost the asset!!”_ that... Ainija can barely stand to listen to them. The doctor is perhaps the worst of the bunch. He whines more than he speaks.

Unfortunate that he is the only one with any real grasp on the importance of casting to the cause, Ainija muses. There are certainly days when she wishes they’d just hired the Kaminoins. _Clearly_ they possessed the time, knowledge, and skill to cast _millions_ at a time with barely any genetic material at all. Hells, they probably even know a way to synthesize whatever in the Moon’s name an _M-count_ is. 

But no.

And naturally _someone_ thought it was an absolutely brilliant idea to allow the shattered remnants of the security bureau take charge over the whole thing. As if _they_ had any working knowledge of casting.

Finally she’s able to dismiss the Lieutenant and her image flickers out of existence. The office lapses into silence, save for the ever-present thundering of wind and dust against the walls.

Ainija stands, taking a moment to stand at the window with her hands clasped at the base of her spine, and mulls over the news.

_“Razor Crest discovered abandoned on Lysatra. An investigation has been launched. Full report to follow in five standard days.”_

No. Five days would be too much time, she thinks bitterly. Five days in hyperspace and the Asset could be halfway to the Unknown Regions, or farther.

They could not wait five days if they had any hope of success.

Ainija takes a commlink from her pocket and turns it over in her fingers thoughtfully. She does have her connections on Lysatra... Speeding the investigation up would certainly bring that success closer to their reach.

And they desperately need to succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I spend more time pouring over maps, star charts, hyperspace maps, and calendars than I do actually writing so yes all of these places and dates are actual things in-universe that i hope to the gods make sense


	8. Fever Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 - Fever Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW again for dissociation/derealization and implied torture   
> A lot of this concept is based on the stories I used to hear from sailors in my hometown.

Thrawn, when bored, is a strange being with just short of strange habits. He paces (normal), he talks to himself (unsettling), he _hovers_ (creepy), and he sits and stares at walls, still as a corpse (downright alarming -maybe it’s a controlled hibernation?).

And he sleeps with his eyes - _mostly_ \- open.

This is the little habit Din hates the most. The man has a gift for falling asleep at the drop of a hat, but he looks too much like the bodies Din’s left in his wake. Which is how Din finds him around midday ship’s time on the sixth day of the trip, arms folded on the galley’s table and red eyes wide open and glowing dimly. Just into the second week of space travel, and he’s just now getting used to it. He sighs in what can only describe as defeat and acceptance and waves his hand over the lightsensor just inside the door and fumbles around as quietly as he can. It’s almost time for the child to eat again, and no doubt Ezra and Rossi will be turning up for lunch soon… He might as well just make something for all of them…

“Djarin.”

Din’s blaster is a hair’s width from touching Thrawn’s chest by the time his brain registers that the man isn’t a threat.

Thrawn, true to what Din now assumes is just _him_ , is entirely unfazed and simply brushes the blaster aside. “I do hope that this is not a regular habit of yours.”

“I might say the same about you sneaking up on people,” Din quips, holstering the weapon. “Do you ever sleep in your bed or just on whatever furniture you can find that _isn’t_ intended for sleeping?”

The man manages to make eye-contact, something that makes a shiver run up Din’s spine.

“I am told that it is a habit I have had since childhood,” he states plainly, as if discussing the weather. “I doubt it is a habit I will be able to break myself of at this stage in life.”

For the first few days, Din had a tally going of how many time he’d been on the verge of just knocking him out and sparing them all the headache. He’s lost count, but another tally mark finds its way onto the forgotten list.

Din presses the urge down and turns his back to Thrawn, going back to his own business. There’s still lunch to be made and damn him to the fifth hell if he lets one bizarre alien throw a wrench in that plan. “What were you even doing in here?”

“Considering.”

 _Here we go_. His grip on the spice jar tightens for a moment in irritation. “Forget I asked.”

Thrawn -who is _infuriatingly_ tall- reaches clear over Din’s head in search of a cup. “I have noticed that Ezra acts in a strange manner when he is around you, though it would be intrusive of me to ask why without prompt.”

Din says nothing, simply ducking out of the man’s way and starting in on his cooking. _If you ignore him, he goes away_.

It is with deep sadness that he discovers that their stocks lack many of the critical components of even a passable batch of tiingilar…

_It is as if the Mandalorian has taken a, iron bar and swung with all his might at Thrawn’s chest. These spells became more common as he aged, but few held any severity or manifested in anything greater than a twinge of unease_.

_Vatt'ah nen nah bapun vah._

_Nah bapun vah nah bapun vah nah bapun vah_

He is vaguely aware of a clattering somewhere in the same room, the sound echoing as the feeling in his limbs fade. If he could breathe properly, he would be panicking.

_Ttis’ah ttis’ah ttis’ah_

Everything is too cold, and his body responds in kind. He needs warmth.

“Hello Mitth’raw’nuruodo.”

Thrawn spins, perhaps too quickly for his aching head, only to find himself no longer in the galley. Before him, on the icy, barren expanse of Csilla’s surface, stands a child no older than eight in a plain silver-white tunic and long pants. The child all but blends in with the inbound snowstorm and Thrawn can barely make out the tilt of their head. Just past them, he can _almost_ see the Mandalorian still shuffling about.

The child does not blink, their jaw slack.

“They will come for us,” they speak, the sound carrying as if the words are spoken directly in his ear. “They found us…” It is a little girl, and Thrawn’s blood turns to stone. “Find us.”

There is a tug at his sleeve - _he does not remember wearing this uniform-_ and he looks down to see another child, this one even younger than the first, staring up at him. “Find us.”

 _I already have. You are safe_.

The words do not pass his lips. The child across the moor reaches for him, malice poisoning her small face.

“You put us in danger.”

“ _Killed_ us.”

“Thrawn?”

 _He would know that voice anywhere_.

The hold on his neck is replaced with a tender touch, one which he has nearly forgotten the feeling of. “Hey, you’re spacin’ out again… what’s wrong?”

Eli’s fingers are the warmth his body so desperately needs, and Thrawn clings to it like a lifeline.

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t give me that,” he sighs, smiling sadly. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re lyin’.”

Thrawn meets Eli’s gaze for a moment, taking the briefest of pauses to find solace in the cool metal of the band around the human’s index finger. Calm washes over him, but not as fully as he would like. “War leaves scars on us all, Eli. More often than not, they are the scars that are left unseen.”

_youkilledushelpplease_

“You’ve been thinking about Khi’tstuit and Al’ainee again, aren’t you?” Eli draws the conclusion on his own, leaning a little bit away and into the plush cushions of the sofa with his arms crossed loosely.

Thrawn nods. “I did everything I could, but we-“

“This is why no one trusts you,” the human cuts him off. “It was never a “we” failure, it was your failure. Trying to come back now is a mistake. You’ll never be welcome -you’ll be lucky if we don’t shoot you on sight.”

His stomach ties itself in knots, nauseating him. If it lasts any longer, there is no doubt in Thrawn’s mind that he’ll be sick. “Eli-“

“First Thrass and the _Outbound Flight_.” Eli begins to count on his fingers, eyes darker now then they should be. “Then it was Cse’sessi, then Ab’egh and who knows how many others you conveniently couldn’t find-“

“Eli, please-“

Eli rises to his feet, posture and tone all screaming that he is a threat. “You really think that I want you to come back? That I want to spend the rest of my life with you?” He glares down at Thrawn, who can all but hear his heart breaking. “You told them I _died_! You _killed me!_ ”

_Vatt'ah nen nah bapun vah._

_Ttis’ah ttis’ah ttis’ah._

_Please_

“ _What are you even doing here?_ ”

“Considering.” He takes a breath, then pauses. _He’s been here before_.

“Have you noticed how strangely Ezra acts when you are nearby?”

The Mandalorian hesitates, the knife in his hands halfway through whatever he is preparing. It only lasts for three blinks before the the knife plunges the rest of the way into the meat. “I can’t say I know him well enough to know when he’s “acting strangely”… Why?”

Thrawn does not reply as he fills the very-clearly-imperial-surplus kettle. “He is not outwardly pensive, nor does he have the gift of thoughtful silence.”

“But he does when I’m around?” Djarin picks up the pieces Thrawn has laid down and puts them together perfectly.

“Indeed,” he confirms. Thrawn stares at the kettle, willing it to boil quicker. He’s sure he’d kill for a half-way decent cup of tea that isn’t whatever’s in the ration packs stashed on the _Stardust_. And the caf is arguably worse. In a few of his books and the scraps of cultural _anything_ he’s read on Mandalorians, Thrawn finds it safe to assume that Djarin will enjoy the cuisines of his own people. They have quite a bit in common -it seems that both Chiss (especially Colonials) and Mandalorians have a very specific nature about them where food is concerned. If it does not cause great amounts of sweating and watering eyes, it simply is not spiced enough. Though, for all of the amusing phrases and colloquialisms the Mandalorian’s have created to describe the ideal meal, he’d very much like to see one of them try anything that Ar’alani prepares. Even the most stoic and strong-willed tend to find themselves suffering at least a little bit. It’s always worth it, of course.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like new people?” Djarin suggests after a long spell, only to be interrupted by the whistling of the kettle.

“Perhaps.” Thrawn moves like a man on fire to silence the unholy shrieking. “Though, he did not seem as such with myself, nor any others whom we have encountered.”

“Maybe it’s just Mandalorians.”

At this, Thrawn very nearly laughs. _Maybe it’s just Mandalorians_.

No, that was absolutely not true.

_His voice is what one might call “informal”, though there is an err of sleep deprivation behind his words._

Thrawn does not grace him with a response. There’s tea to be drank and dreams to be pondered. He is no stranger to nightmares, he thinks with the first sip. But this one is quite a bit different than those he suffers regularly, on the rare occasion he sleeps well enough to dream. Perhaps not a dream at all, then. Though that thought in itself is a great deal more terrifying than anything else he could possibly consider. He does not like being out of control, especially of his own mind.

But if it is not a dream, and he does indeed carry any of the traits of his siblings, then the conversations may very well come to pass.

A thought that is deeply unsettling, Thrawn concludes. The tea truly is horrible, but it’s hot and he is deathly cold. He is not his siblings. He does not posses the gift of foresight in the way that they did. He is not Sighted.

“ _Vatt'ah nen!”_

A shock of misplaced energy shoots through him and he bolts upright, knocking the mug clean off the little table in a mad scramble to find the source of the cry. No one aboard speaks his tongue, but he would rather not leave it to chance.

_“Thrawn!”_

He’s vaguely aware of the Mandalorian’s footfalls behind him, no doubt struggling to keep up. Chiss are fast, humans weighed down by that much armor are not.

Thrawn could get lost in the strange passages of these freighters, he’d made that assumption within the first days he was aboard. But there is nothing but familiarity about his path.

 _I have no doubt been aboard before. Though, I do not believe I was supposed to remember_.

He runs. The lift takes too long. The Mandalorian is no longer on his heels.

 _It was so long ago_.

His mind has carried him to a cargo bay, one where Ezra had taken up partial residence. The Child is with him. With his _body._

Thrawn’s conscious does not fully register the scene at first. Perhaps he has grown attached to the boy, but he very nearly panics at the sight of drying blood around his ears. That is not a good sign in humans.

 _This is what was so wrong,_ he thinks. _He was calling to whoever could hear…_

The child fusses loudly, slapping his tiny little hands against Thrawn’s thigh when he kneels at Ezra’s side.

“Don’t worry,” he mumbles more to himself than the child. “He’ll be alright.”

He squeaks defiantly, slapping with a renewed urgency until Thrawn finally picks him up. “You must allow me a moment to transport him to the medbay, little one.”

_His facial and body heat are somewhat low for a human of his size. Though his heart beats steadily, there is no telling if there has been damage to his brain…_

Thrawn sets his jaw firmly and outlines the back of Ezra’s neck in search of displaced vertebrae. Thankfully, he finds none. Nor does he find evidence of severe damage to the parts of his skull which have impacted the floor. And judging by the way he has fallen, Thrawn thinks, it is likely that he was still sitting.

A little green hand reaches past Thrawn’s, intent on grabbing at Ezra’s tunic.

 _Let it happen_ , says a little voice in the back of his mind.

And so he does.

Eyes wide and glowing with interest, Thrawn watches as the child’s little face scrunches in concentration and he _swears_ that he can see a faint tether between the two. The dried blood does not disappear, as Thrawn thought it might, but Ezra’s breathing strengthens and warmth returns to his body.

When the Mandalorian finally finds his way to the cargo bay, the child has fallen asleep in Thrawn’s arms. Ezra, though awake, is not yet coherent.

“What in the hell happened?”

_His voice holds anger, perhaps confusion, and his body heat has risen._

“I...” Thrawn hesitates. _Sensed_ is the correct word, he knows this, but it seems out of place. Enough so to be suspicious, even. “Your child is Sighted, Mandalorian, and my people have a particular... _necar in’cutuvce_ of these things. I could sense his fear.”

_The Mandalorian’s body tenses, but he does not express further anger._

“Is the kid okay?” A beat, then, “Both of them?”

Thrawn nods once as he presses the back of his hand to Ezra’s forehead, then two fingers over his neck. “They will be, yes.”

_His posture eases as he kneels. Worry has perhaps replaced anger._

“What does “Sighted” mean?”

Thrawn idly fixes the hem on the child’s little garment. “I have come to the understanding that the inhabitants of the Lesser Spaces refer to it as the Force.”

“You’re a Jedi?”

At this, Thrawn has to bite back amusement. “No, nor will I ever be. But my kind has a strong biological connection to it. When your child called out through the Force, I was able to sense his dismay.” He sighs, thinking. “I have little doubt that Ezra experienced what is known to my people as a _Calling_.”

~*~

“ _Harder!_ ”

Yissa huffs, pushes a clump of stray hair out of her face, and glares at the woman above her. With a snarl, she complies, putting as much force behind her good hand as possible. She’s not in the mood for this, but it’s the best way to blow off steam.

With each passing hour, the trail left by the Asset grew colder and thinner and more impossible to keep track of. And she’s been placed in charge of the force assigned to track down the damn thing. The news of losing the _Razor Crest_ , their one and only lead, had sent a new jolt of anger through her. Yissa’s chief investigator -a rather enthusiastic and… _eclectic_ young man- had caught the scent once more and tracked it as far as the Tion Cluster, but from there the trail went cold once more. All they had to go on was talk of a Mandalorian and its Pantoran husband, who claimed to be traveling merchants.

She’d punched a wall after that, successfully breaking seven bones in her hand.

That had been less than a week ago.

“Put up more of a fight and _maybe_ I’ll listen to you,” Yissa snaps. The woman, Loralai, sneers and twists her body around Yissa’s until their roles have been reversed and the commodore’s back hits the mat with a dull thud. There’s a knife at her neck now, but Loralai is still not a threat. Boots connect with her stomach and Yissa launches the woman off her body. Sometimes getting the snot beat out of oneself can be quite enlightening, she thinks.

Though, Loralai leaves a _great_ deal to be desired.

The commander hisses, a habit she no doubt picked up from Yissa herself, and lunges, arms reaching out and fury in her eyes.

Yissa steps to the side, bending at the waist and using Loralai’s momentum to purge her elbow into the woman’s ribs. She lands, gasping for breath as Yissa looms over her, eyes cold and unforgiving.

“Do not bring me news of failure again, Commander Ainija,” she says dangerously, “Let this be your lesson.”

Loralai coughs violently, but manages a weak “Yes ma’am” as the commodore flicks her chin.

“Good.”

“Commodore Hammerly, Commander Ainija-“

Yissa jerks up as the hatch opens, revealing her absolute least favorite aide. He reminds her all too much of a child who was not told “no” enough. She glowers at him, teeth grinding painfully.

“If you do not have him in custody, you are to leave now and not return until you have him,” Yissa growls.

The man snaps to fearful attention, clutching his datapad like it’s a lifeline. “We do, Commodore. Captain Mitrow has him detained on detention level beta-nine, cell two-two-two-fou-“

Yissa is on her feet again before he can finish speaking, already halfway to where she had abandoned her jacket. “Prepare an interrogation droid. I do not want any more information lost to incompetence.”

Commander Loralai Ainija is barely three paces behind Hammerly, struggling to keep up with the woman’s furious stomping.

She inclines her chin with practiced authority with her hands clasped tight behind her back. Yissa Hammerly is unbreakable, Loralai knows. She may be the first to joke in good nature at the expense of another, but her heart closes off and her face sets in stone and she is both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Loralai can do nothing but watch in awe as she stalks around the restrained pirate with an absolutely _predatory_ look in her eyes.

“So _you’re_ Hondo Onaka.” It is not a question of identity. It is a statement.

He looks utterly scandalized. “That’s _Captain_ , to you. _Captain_ Hondo Onaka,” Onaka spits.

Hammerly continues as if he has not so much as blinked. “It says here that you’ve been a shard in the side of the galaxy since before the Clone Wars. You must be a busy man, _Captain_ Onaka.” There is venom in her voice, but it is a cold venom. The sort that paralyzes one with fear that runs marrow-deep.

Onaka, still as offended by the Commodore as the day is long, struggles against the restraints to follow her path. “I am a business man, my dear. I cannot help it if _politics_ interfere with that business.”

“If you insist I call you _Captain_ ,” Hammerly bites out, “then surely you can find it in yourself to call me _Commodore_.”

Years under Hammerly’s bitter command have taught Ainija to suppress any physical response to emotion while on duty, though the razor edge in her voice makes it very difficult to remain the image of apathy when a shiver of fear drips down her spine.

Onaka _laughs_ with all of the audacity of a man who believes he is immune to mortality. “I did not mean to offend, Commodore. But I still do not see why I am here.”

Yissa stops her pacing just behind the restraint chair, the muscles of her jaw flexing in thought. “You have recently taken up residence on Lysatra, have you not, Captain Onaka?”

“Yes!” He defends himself, “It’s such a quaint little place, full of markets and traders- perfect for an enterprising man such as myself to work from.” His words are still laced with offense, something Ainija makes note of for later.

“Perfect indeed.” Hammerly fits a control cuff around her wrist and lets out a long sigh through her nose as she flicks her wrist around to calibrate the device. Her pacing then resumes, this time beckoning the hovering interrogation droid to follow in her shadow. “I do believe that this conversation will be extremely beneficial to us both.”

Even from the other side of the one-way transpari with her back to the observatory, Ainija can sense the darkness that has settled across the Commodore’s face and there is a twinge of sadness in her heart.

_When did this happen…?_


	9. The Patriarch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 - The Patriarch

Zicher finds him on the floor of the lift, body cold and heart beating far faster and more erratic than it should be.

 _“Admiral down! Emergency medical team to lift four, level six!”_ She shouts into her comm. “Theliva, ‘ey!” Zicher drops to her knees and rolls him into his back, only to find a pool of blood where his head had been. “‘Ey, ey ey, looking at me!”

_Her Basic is terrible, but perhaps he will respond to it better._

“Eli, looking at me!” Her voice grows strained and panicky, and her hands behind to shake. She slaps his cheek, perhaps harder than necessary. “Eye open, Eli! Looking at me!”

The frantic steps of the medics running down the hall. One drops to virs knees midway down the hall and slides the rest of the way, coming to a screeching halt inches from Zicher’s legs.

“How did you find him?” Vi shifts Theliva from Zicher’s hold, “Like this?”

The commander nods and is forcibly scooted to the side by another medic. “What’s wrong with him?”

The first medic waves vir mediscan over Theliva’s body, eyes dark. Zicher thinks it may be Taevown, but vir nameplate is obscured from this angle. But she can still see the faint lines of black makeup crossing the bride of vir nose and lining vir cheeks. Taevown waves another medic down and Zicher spots a hovercot lingering in the hall. “We will take him to the Medbay. I cannot be sure now, but…” Taevown trails off, hesitant to finish vir sentence. “Commander, I know little of his species, nor can I be sure of their Sight. Not with what this ship is equipped with.”

Zicher’s gaze snaps from her admiral to the medic. “What are you talking about?”

The medics on either side look as uncomfortable with the implication as Zicher is confused. “Tell me!”

“We do not know how the Sights manifest in his kind,” Obbic’ier’binati explains. “But this appears as a Calling. Though, if his species does not experience it as we do, it may have damaged his mind.”

She draws in a sharp breath through her teeth. “I will speak with the Human prisoner and the Sky-Walker she travels with.” Zicher shoves herself to her feet with one last lingering look at Theliva before the remaining medics swoop in. “Keep me informed of his condition.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Cierbin nods stiffly.

Once into the hall, she takes out her comm and schools her face into one of stone once more. A breath, then she pockets the comm. Zicher needs to return to the bridge, to quietly tell Suoteru and make sure that the ships keeps functioning as if the incident had never happed. _Then_ she could talk to the prisoners.

“Commander on the Bridge!”

Zicher keeps her back rod-straight and her jaw tight when Suoteru joins her at the command console. After sending a private communication to Ar’alani’s fleet, she turns to the Captain. “Admiral Theliva has taken ill, “ Zicher murmurs just loud enough for Suoteru to hear. “Chief Medic Jetta'evow'nouqhi is unsure as of yet, but believes he has experienced a Calling.”

The Captain’s eyes widen, and she looks about to speak much louder than Zicher would like.   
“I want this kept quiet for the time being, Captain,” she cuts in. “You will speak nothing of it, am I understood?”

Suoteru nods. “Yes, Ma’am. Orders?”  
Zicher chews the corner of her lip thoughtfully. “Keep the bridge running as usual. I need to speak with our _guests_.”

“Ma’am?”

“Admiral Theliva is human,” she says simply. “And we have a human aboard. She may be able to offer insight to the ailments of their kind which we have not yet encountered.”

The captain nods, concern flickering across her face for the briefest of seconds before returning to normal. “Yes Ma’am.”

With a sigh, Zicher keys in another comm, this time to the marines. “Captain Meece'owaza'ruzeo, I need an escort to meet me on the detention block in three minutes.”

Ceowazar’s voice crackles through the small speaker. “ _How many?”_

“Two will suffice Captain, thank you.”

Zicher keeps her anxieties tucked behind closed doors, empty eyes, and a flat tone as the marines behind her jabber away in broken Basic. She understands approximately three words, and is internally thankful to Ceowazar for sending the only two aboard the ship who speak more than a handful of creative pleasantries.

Still, she can sense unease in them both, a lack of trust in their ability to carry out their duty.

“Do what you can,” She says evenly. “If you encounter an unknown, we shall simply find an alternative.”

“And if they refuse to speak?” The one to her right asks.

Zicher sighs deeply. “Follow my lead, and do not question.”

They acknowledge her in unison second before they arrive at the first detention cell. The hatch opens to reveal the Armored One tinkering away at something in her armor and her gaze burns into Zicher’s skull when she spots them.

Zicher straightens again, putting on as much pf a parade as she can. “I am Senior Commander Iri’zi’che’ri of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force,” she says tightly. “I have questions for you, questions that are to be answered with complete and total honesty.”

The marine on her left translates, and the Armored One makes a face Zicher considers to be one of insult as she offered a sharp reply.

“She says she does not have to answer to warlords, nor will she.”

She takes a breath, forcing her teeth not to grind too much, but does not break her stare from the human. “Does your kind know of the Sights? ”

Again, she translates, and again the human scowls.

_There is confusion in her, fear. This is unprompted and unexpected._

The marine looks about to speak again, likely to repeat the question, and Zicher holds up a hand to silence her. “I believe you are calling it _“Force”_ , do you not?”

This captures the Armored One’s attention, but she does not appear any more cooperative.

“Are you, or are you not?” Zicher repeats with more vigor.

“I already told you,” Armored One snaps, “I won’t answer to a _warlord_. I know who your kind is, what you _do_. You kill and slaughter without mercy -you are annihilators!”

Zicher inclines her chin a few degrees towards the marine. “Explain?”  
“Ch'uscehah vim vsah csot ch'usci, Ren’musi,” she says quietly. Zicher nods, returning her full attention to the Armored One.

“I say at you, we are not those,” She remarks stiffly.

“Commander,” the woman beside her pipes up, “Perhaps it is best to cut to the chase. She may be more willing.”

Zicher dips her head in acknowledgment. “Then do so at your discretion.”

She slips into watchful silence as the marine takes a step forward and makes a show of holstering her charric to her thigh and begins to chatter in the sour tongue. _“Basic_ ” leaves an uncomfortable taste in her mouth -so many strange shapes and tones, too many rules of sentence structure that follow no laws of logic… It’s loud and unruly and she can’t _stand_ speaking it for more than a few moments at a time. Though, she does wonder what Theliva thought of their language when first learning it. Had the rasps and pauses been difficult to form? She knows of only a small count of other humans who had dared try to learn, and they are under the command of the Military, and therefore have access to other shared languages that are not nearly as difficult to learn. Except for the pet that that one Aristocra keeps around… Zicher doesn’t think that he knows a single word of Cheunh outside of “Yes sir”, “No sir”, and no less than three variations of “master” that carry heavy reference to sexual activities. She doesn’t like that one very much.

A shouting match breaks out between the Armored One and the marine, effectively snapping Zicher out of her thoughts. She throws her arm between the two of them and shoves the marine behind her, sticking herself between the increasingly furious human and her own kin.

“Enough!” She bellows, inwardly cursing the dropped syllables. “Are you not understand there are life at danger?” Zicher shouts, her carefully sculpted calm cracking. “A human is going to _die_ if you are not answer what we say!”

The Armored One’s eyes widen in fear, then she backs off, posture radiating arrogance. It is then that Zicher registers the hot hands gripping her shoulders from behind, ready to haul her off if things fly out of hand.

“Vacosehn vzeat, Ren’musi,” the marine says against her temple, “Csei s carcir nah veah nah himn'ah.”

Zicher sucks a breath in before pushing it back out through clenched teeth. “Ch'ah rsah .” 

None make any indiction that they plan to move, nor can anything beyond Zicher’s ragged breath be heard. The Armored One’s body and facial heat have risen significantly, to the point where Zicher is unsure as to whether or not she is well.

“Say to me,” she begins, straining to maintain her composure while still loosely restrained by the marine. There is renewed gravity in her voice and a darkness in her eyes that is likely a threat to any who might see her. “What your people are knowing in the Force.”

The Armored One stands her ground, glaring defiantly.

“ _Fine.”_

~*~

Of all the duties Patriel Mitth’oni’nuruodo _hates_ , she hates this one the most. Perhaps one day she will see three consecutive seconds when her shipyards are not in some state of utter disarray. At the moment, with her poor aide at her heels, Thonin is all but run ragged for the day. Every time she blinks, there seems to be at least three more reports -most of them regarding some sort of accident or mishap- stacked either on her desk or cluttering her questis, and she’s sure that the amount of caf she’s ingested already that morning might be lethal to anyone else.

She’s going to lay in an early grave, she thinks sourly.

Four of Copero’s six central manufacturing complexes have been all but destroyed by ice storms in the past month, leaving the shipyards scraping around for whatever materials they could to manage repairs until the centers could be reestablished.

And in that particular moment, Thonin would rather be in the mouth of a wampa than dealing with a room full of irritated Syndics, desperately trying to explain that _no, the planets’ weather systems are not something we can control_ and _no, we could not draw a conclusion as to the storm’s magnitude until it was too late to properly fortify the complexes._

 _Politicians_ , Thonin grumbles to herself over the much-needed lunch break and into her -she’d lost count now- cup of caf. Her aide is somewhere down the conference table, head resting on folded arms as he no doubt catches a few moments of much-needed sleep. Thonin can’t remember which Syndic’s son he is, but he’s generally helpful and does an impressive job of maintaining some semblance of dignity and decorum amid the abuse of politics.

She grumbles something else under her breath as the Clarr, Inrokini, Kivu, and Chaf Syndics begin to filter back into the room, hopefully now in better moods. Copero, for all of its chaos, is rather well known for its affinity for harboring countless wonderful little cafes and eateries. Thonin just hopes that the stiff Syndics stopped well.

“Patiel.” Syndic Kivu’oroas'nruzur offers a nod as she takes her seat.

“Syndics.” She nods in response, but does not look up from her questis. “Welcome back. I trust you found the break to your likings?”

Clarr’ihesho'tishua’s expression flickers from pained to forced respect in a heartbeat. “Indeed,” he sniffs. “You aide appears to be lacking, Partiel. Perhaps a new one is in order?”

Thonin lifts a cursory brow, but does not offer her full attention. “I shall consider it, along with your disrespect.”

Syndic Riheshoti scoffs through his nose. “Of course you shall.”

It is then that Therisi lifts his head and looks to Thonin. She can see a lingering pain in his eyes and the unusual uptick in his facial heat, and her stomach drops with a distinct _oh no_.

She grits her teeth, excusing Therisi under pretext that she no longer requires his services for the day, all while sending a discrete request to his questis that he visit the complex’s infirmary before returning to the Homestead. Once the heavy door are shut behind him and each Syndic has returned to their places, Thonin keys her questis off and steeples her fingers under her chin.

She made a point of looking right past the ever-annoying Chaf representative to make eye-contact with theInrokini Syndic. “Now, I believe we intended to further discuss the terms of aide to be provided to my manufacturing complexes during their reconstruction?”

Seven hours.

It had taken seven hours, four screaming matches (that had very nearly resulted in _something_ heavy being thrown), and two meal breaks to finally come to any semblance of an agreement, and Thonin leaves the center with an ache in her spine and a throbbing in pain behind her eyes. Something much stronger than caf is absolutely in order for the next series of negotiations. She considers, then backpedals. That might be even more damaging to their health and increase the odds of physical fights breaking out. The last thing Thonin wants is another visit from the authorities.

 _And this_ , she thinks bitterly, _is why the Mitth are the butt-end of every joke_.

She’d order the manufacturing centers to be rebuilt at the equator, but that would only result in the need for mines and processing plants to be separate entities. There would still be a risk to the mines, but it was easier to operate _those_ remotely. Or at least, they would be once the labs on Csilla figured out how to remotely pilot the machines with multiple kilometers of rock between the pilot and machine.

Thonin sighs, keying on her questis and sending Therisi a quick check-in. Hopefully the young man is alright… She really doesn’t want to deal with another ch'itrin'i outbreak. Not right now. She’s already got enough on her plate and doesn’t need to report _that_ to the Patriarch on top of the just south of unfair agreement she’d reached with the Inrokini. Not that it was entirely _her_ fault -Thonin just wanted to seal the agreement and get everything moving before even _more_ damage could be done.

When she finally reaches the Patriarch’s wing of the homestead, Thonin notices two things. The first is that his favorite boots are not in their usual place by his office door, and the second is the agitated -and almost enraged- voice of his niece coming from the study.

 _“Well put them on the line!”_ Thunhe’s voice is sour, and even without seeing her, Thonin knows that the girl’s hands are balled into fists at her sides, if she is not shaking them threateningly. “ _I swear by the Moons of Csilla, if they don’t deal with-“_

“ _I know, I know.”_ Replies her uncle. _“Just…”_ Thonin hears him sigh. He’s no doubt off-world dealing with even nastier politics than she has been, and just as tired. “Ar’alani is on standby, but I’ll have Zicher tell her to sop by and pick you up on her way to meet with the _Lighthope_.” There is a pause, then, “ _They don’t have a Sky-Walker right now, so as far as I understand, you’d be the closest they’re going to get to any sort of expertise in this.”_

Thonin finally enters the study as Thunhe’s shoulders droop. “What about Zicher? She was a Sky-Walker, too. Can’t they ask her?”

“ _Her Sight is long since faded, ch’acah,”_ he frowns. “ _Someone who still has at least a Trace would be more help.”_

Thunhe nods to her, acknowledging her presence. “The Patriel’s here… I think she has bad news, G’en’vti.

His eyes, through the holo, meet Thonins’.

 _He’s tired._  
“It can wait until morning, Patriarch Mitth’ras’safis,” she says. “Get some sleep. May warriors’ fortune favor Admiral Theliva in whatever trials he faces. And may they favor you in your political endeavors, as always.”

Thrass offers a tight-lipped smile, _“May they favor him, indeed. Myself, all I require is more patience and sanity than the universe seems willing to allow me.”_

She thinks she hears Thunhe mutter something under her breath that sounds like “you and I both”, but she doesn’t comment. “It has been many generations since a _Merit Adoptive_ held the rank of Patriarch. You knew this would come to pass as it has.”

 _“Yes, I did_ ,” Thrass says sourly. “ _However, I do have a great many things I wish to tell all of these-“_

“There are still children present, Patriarch,” Thonin scolds, nodding in Thunhe’s direction.

Thrass regards his niece thoughtfully. “ _I must credit the humans with that, in the very least -their language allows for a fair number of well-hidden and polite-sounding euphemisms and profanities that would be well suited for politics that we are sadly lacking.”_ There is a wistful glint in his eyes before he seems to recall the subject at hand. “ _At any rate, this has been a lovely conversation but the status of Zikarynfa has once again been called into question and I have several choice words for the utter blasphemy of a Chiss that is Chaf’orm’bintrano_.” He says the name as if it is a poison on his tongue, and Thonin can sympathize. None of them are particularly polite, and they perpetually lack all decency as people. “ _I don’t know how many more copies of the marriage license and Matriarch’s approvals they need to get the point_.”

Thonin winces. “Understood, Patriarch. And best of luck to you.”

He scowls. “I appreciate it.” He seems to think for a moment, then turns to Thunhe, “And give me regards to your father when you arrive aboard the _Lighthope_. He never responds to my comms and his sleeping habits do worry me.”

Thunhe allows herself a pained and humorless snort. “I’ll sic Auntie Ar’alani on him.”

Thrass laughs. “Or Thilvon. She might be the only one capable of out-scolding Ara.”

~*~

She’d cried the moment when Ar’alani and Theliva had marched out of the hearing chamber, both beaming with pride and excitement. The day she’d been adopted. Finally. Being accepted by the Mitth had taken all of six hours after she stepped foot off her last ship (and at ten, no more), but for them to allow _Ivant_ to adopt her as his legal _daughter?_ That had been a fight that had lasted for an entire, exhausting five years.

Five years of her being entirely unwilling to leave his side unless absolutely necessary. Five years of Ar’alani quietly allowing her to stay aboard whatever vessel he was on under the guise of training to become a Caregiver.

Thunhe had started calling him “dad” within the first year.

Then, when she was of age to begin secondary, her time aboard her Dad’s vessels became less and less. Not that she minded. School was interesting enough and kept her busy. She had friends, her studies went smoothly. She was even on track to one day study medicine at the medical academy on Rhigar the next year.

But through it all, her Sight had not faded. Not fully. Barely any. She’d only been retired as a Navigator for the sake of her health. The war had taken too great a toll on her to continue. It really had been for the better, though it still caused problems from time to time.

“I thought Thrass said that the _Lighthope_ didn’t have a Sky-Walker?”

Ar’alani turns to where she stands behind the command chair on the _Vigilant’s_ bridge. “She doesn’t.”

Thunhe purses her lips. “There is a Sky-Walker aboard,” she persists. “And her Sight is unlike any I have felt.”


	10. Binesu Esethimba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 - Binesu Esethimba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept running into a wall with this one so enjoy a brief respite  
> Tiny TW for blood (:  
> Also enjoy the Ronan/Formbi crumbs that I wrote while sitting next to my conservative orthodox mother at thanksgiving. I risked my dignity for this

_“No,_ your right hand goes _here_ and your _left_ hand goes _here._ ”

Of all the titles and names Chaf’orm’bintrano has held in his life, _dance teacher_ was never one that he considered. He also never truly -nor willingly- considered _husband_ , but that one is less in the air now.

Life has a funny way of proving itself wrong sometimes, he thinks. Just like how Brierly is currently proving just how _impatient Formbi actually is_.

Because it really isn’t _that_ hard. One just needs to step and move with each beat and…

…and humans lack all rhythm.

But Brierly is _trying_ and it’s _adorable_ and Formbi can’t help the fond smile that tugs at his lips as he repositions the fan in his hand. “There, now, flick it out like this.” He demonstrates, flicking his own fan open as he brings his entire arm across his face, dipping in to a mid-crouch with his head turned to the left. The motions come easily -his mother had insisted that each of her sons learned, regardless of whether they wanted to or not. Formbi had put up the least fight, assuming that it would be important one day at a gala or something or the sort.

And in his entire lifespan, that had happened all of _once_.

He’s quite sure that his mother never intended _this_ particular outcome.

“See?” Formbi straightens, thighs burning just a little. He hasn’t had much reason to dance in years, but Brierly had been pestering to learn more about the ”nooks and crannies” of Sarvchi culture, and Formbi finally succumbed to the pouting. So here they were, Formbi in his old pair of practice slips and shawls and Brierly donning a borrowed set that was perhaps too large.

No matter. It’ll do for the moment, Formbi thinks.

Brierly bites his lip in thought (something he does quite often) and mimics the Aristocra’s former motions, though he misses the timing on the first four attempts. The head must turn when the fan is fully open, which is -in theory- at the chord.

“Here, try it _with_ me.” Formbi restarts the music on his questis before setting it aside and picking up his fan. “Ready?”

Brierly nods, checking his footwork in comparison to the Chiss’s. Heels together, then shoulder-width, then turn the left foot _out_ and point the toe, _then put your weight on the right foot and bend at the knee_. It _looks_ effortless. It is, in fact, not. Not when it’s supposed to be done in one motion between beats and the bent knee is designed to propel one into a turn.

“One ‘a two a’ three, and-“ The music starts and the pair nod in sync with the first four notes, hands folded over their hearts.

With the next four beats, their hands move with their heads.

Then the left foot is lifted, only to be brought down a shoulder’s width apart.

“ _Breathe,”_ Formbi says under his breath.

 _Bend a the knee_.

Brierly draws in a slow, practices breath as he flicks the fan open and swings his arm in the smooth circle they’d been working on. Every other beat, their heads tip to the right.

“Up now.”

He allows Formbi the freedom to hoist him up at the waist, making sure his core stays tight and steady. He’s supposed to wave the fan in a halo around the crown of his head, then let his body go slack. If done correctly, Formbi will ease him down on his third turn and he’ll return to the _toe pointed, bend at the knee_ stance with the fan open again.

 _“_ One…”

Brierly’s torso loosens until he can reach his ankles (difficult). He only needs to hold it for a second. 

“Two…”

He lets go, tightening his core again in the first stage of landing.

_They’re still moving, spinning. Formbi’s fingers dig into his waist a little more._

“Three.”

Formbi is a little breathless, but he pays little attention to it as he lowers the human and mirrors his pose, drawing the fan across his face once more. Here, his hand is still at Brierly’s waist, guiding him proper through the next sequence. Partnered, the style is more sensual than it is anything else, and Formbi wouldn’t have it any other way. And from the flare of heat taking over Brierly’s neck and ears, he’s certainly enjoying himself in spite of the frustration.

“Bring your leg around now.” He’s close enough to speak directly into Brierly’s ear. “Shift your weight… fan open.”

 _His breathing pace is quicker now and he shakes a little in each crouch. He was not built for endurance.  
_Formbi’s free hand glides along Brierly’s side as the human snaps the fan open and close on each beat, and he can feel him shiver under the touch.

_Oh?_

“Marvelous, ch'ithsin'bo in’a,” Formbi murmurs. “Just like that… Lean into me.”

He does as he’s told and Formbi anchors his stance.

“Ready?”

Brierly nods, and the other man _literally_ sweeps him off his feet again. Time and time again he’s told the stories of how this version is a representation of the joining of souls in the sky, how fashion designers have been trying for decades to create a fabric that will change colors during the dance so that partners can start out contrasting and end the same or similar.

 _“Rt’esah, Bri. Rt’esah._ ” Fombi’s voice is low and even against his neck and suddenly he’s being slung around the man’s shoulders. “Hook your leg now… Breathe.”

The music reaches its climax as Formbi turns once, twice, thrice before once again setting Brierly back on his feet where they both dip into the same low-sitting spin. Formbi is the one to pull him back to his full height and draw him in close again.

_This is where you flick your fan back open._

But he’s too distracted by the hot breath fanning his face and the mouth he knows is _soft and warm_ is _right there_ and-

Formbi lowers his head and steals the open-mouthed kiss with no small amount of expertise. It’s soft and slow and warm and everything Formbi pretends he’s _not_. Hell, he just upholds Brierly’s belief that the most ruthless politicians make the most sensual lovers.

“I didn’t know this was part of the binesu,” Brierly smiles into the second kiss.

“Not usually, no.”

_Not that he was about to complain. His human is a tiny space heater that likes to be held._

Another kiss and Brierly’s fingers slip up and into his Chiss’s beautiful hair. There’s a few braids still scattered about -something about traditions- but it’s still nice to touch and play with and the sweet purrs that Brierly is able to draw from him are absolutely _heavenly_.

Brierly pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Formbi’s. “What are you thinking?”

He can feel the smile that is not doubt revealing sharp teeth curl against his cheek. “That I’m going to miss you during the hearings this week.”

“Then why not make the most of today?”

~*~

Loralai toys with the band around her thumb as the commodore lands another blow across Onaka’s face, not so much as shaking her own fist out after the contact. She’s caught sight of the blood spattered across Hammerly’s uniform the few times she’s been visible though the transpari, and the one time Onaka was fully in view, Loralai had forced her face to remain steady. She knows little of his species, but generally, that much lost blood isn’t healthy for _anyone._ Whatever information he has, Loralai thinks darkly, it must be absolutely critical that they get it out of him.

 _“The Razor Crest!”_ Yissa’s growl cuts through the speakers, “ _Where is her captain? Where is the Mandalorian?!”_

The pirate _spits_ on her, and Loralai braces herself for the imminent slap that Yissa will undoubtedly-

Loralai winces inwardly as the pirate’s head snaps to the side, already doing the math on what it’s going to take to calm the Commodore down for the evening.

_“I have told you everything I know, which is quite a bit!”_

She does applause his resilience and darring. Not many would dare to cross the Commodore, let alone to do it so blatantly.

“ _You have told me nothing,”_ Yissa growls. Loralai can see her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides and watches her posture intently. For a moment, she wonders who the Commodore trained under, which methods she was taught and which methods just came naturally from the darkest pits of her personality. The woman stalking around the interrogation chamber is _not_ the same one who sleeps on her desk and orders vibrantly colored cocktails with fruit spear garnishes. This is not the woman who has to be -quite literally- drug out from under no less than seven (plush) blankets for duty in the mornings. It is not the same woman, unless there is a darkness lurking behind the eyes of Yissa Hammerly that is kept well-hidden and under strict control, only to be let out in controlled bursts. Loralai isn’t sure what scares her the most about that thought.

When she breaks out out of her thoughts, Yissa’s posture has relaxed. Though, with blood on her uniform and undoubtedly broken and bruised knuckles, “relaxed” doesn’t seem to be the right word.

Loralai’s comm beeps, the sound muffled by her pocket, and she tears her gaze from the cell. “Ainija.”

“ _Commander, the Moff’s back and wants to speak with you and Commodore Hammerly.”_

She bristles, suppressing a shudder. “Thank you. I will inform her.” Ainija bites her cheek, straightens her uniform and squares her cap, and then keys on the intercom. Clearing her throat, she speaks with as much authority as she can muster. “Commodore Hammerly, you’re needed in the command center, double time.”

Ainija watches the Commodore bid a threatening farewell, then turns her back to the transperi.

The hatch closes with a hiss and Yissa allows herself a relieved sigh. “I presume that wasn’t just a ploy to end the session early?”

“No Ma’am,” Ainija winces, but falls into an easy step beside Hammerly. “Lieutenant Bellon paged us. Moff Gideon has returned from the research center on Nevarro. No doubt he’ll be checking in on our progress tracking the _Razor Crest_.”

Hammerly’s mouth twists into a deep frown and she hums in thought. “I see.”

“I suppose you plan to tell him that interrogations are in progress, as is the rest of the investigation?”

“No,” Hammerly says flatly, “We will tell him the truth. We have reports tracing as far as the Tion Cluster, and several informants ready and willing to come forward with any information they come across.”

“But that won’t hold against the Moff,” Ainija argues, pressing the turbolift control with more force than she intended. “We need solid proof that we’re making progress or it’s our heads.”

Hammerly’s back is rod-straight and her head held high. “I am well aware, Commander, thank you.”

They settle into an uncomfortable silence, and to Ainija the turbolift is suffocating. She does what she can to match Hammerly’s posture, hoping that feigning her confidence will bleed into true confidence.

Finally, the lift reaches the command level and Hammerly takes a long stride into the hall ahead, Ainija on her heels. She’s lost in the echoes of bootsteps and chatter from the central command core, too lost to hear Hammerly come to a full stop and nearly bumps into her.

“Moff Gideon,” Hammerly nods curtly. “I apologize for my appearance, our latest _guest_ has been unusually stubborn and I was forced to resort to more…” She searches for the correct word, one that is both formal and accurate to the situation. “… _unorthodox_ tactics.”

The man inclines his head, clearly inspecting them both. “I see. And what information have you extracted thus far, Commodore?”

“It’s what he _hasn’t_ said, Your Excellency,” Hammerly relaxes a little, shifting into a more self-assured persona, both in tone and posture. “As you know, I served under Grand Admiral Thrawn during the height of the Empire and again under Rear Admiral Faro during the war.”

“And you know I have faith in your methods, Commodore,” Gideon’s praise is laced with threat and Ainija takes a slow, measured breath. “Explain what you have discovered.”

Hammerly beams, though there’s a trickle of fear behind her eyes. “Thank you, Your Excellency. He calls himself _Captain_ Hondo Onaka, though the title is entirely self-proclaimed. He is a pirate and nothing more, and has a long history of both Imperial _and_ Pre-Empire Republic entanglements. We were able to trace several of them as far as the early days of the Clone Wars.” She produces a datapad and offers it to the Moff, who takes it without hesitation. “More recently, and most importantly, he was apprehended after a bad dealing with a particularly annoying and stubborn Rebel cell known as the _Phoenix Squadron_ , led by the Jedi Knight Kanan Jarrus and Hera Syndulla.”

“And why is this important, Commodore?”

The threat is far more noticeable now, and Ainija braces for another of their inevitable verbal duels.

Hammerly’s expression darkens. “Because they were key players in the annihilation of the Seventh Fleet during my final tour aboard the _Chimaera_. The same ship marooned by Padawan Ezra Bridger over Lothal, who was also in league with the Phoenix Squadron.”

“And?”

“ _And_ if we find Ezra Bridger and Grand Admiral Thrawn, I believe we will find our Asset.” There is a definite bite in her voice now, Ainija thinks warily. Part of her wants to step away from the Commodore, but that would be taken as cowardice and mistrust -two things that had absolutely no place in the military.

Gideon raises a brow at her, no longer staring at the pad. “You forget Commodore, Grand Admiral Thrawn is dead. We confirmed that years ago when the wreckage of the _Chimaera_ was discovered on Onderon.”

Ainija remembers that day very clearly and her blood runs cold. She’d _been_ there, on the ground team that found the destroyed vessel. “No body, no death.” She murmurs.

Not quietly enough to go unnoticed, unfortunately. “Pardon me, Commander. Have you something to say?”

_There had been missing escape pods, more than the reported number of officers who had escaped on the Admiral’s command once he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. Her commander at the time had ordered a forensics team to the site to collect any evidence they could to determine the Admiral’s fate and the fate of any remaining crew. Initially, the Admiral had been declared among the dead, but there had always been suspicions by the more junior analysts, of all people._

“I said,” Ainija squares her shoulders and stands a bit taller. Hammerly’s confidence is infectious. “ _No body, no death_. It’s an old adage spoken by forensic investigators when they are uncertain of an individual’s fate. I was there when the _Chimaera_ was investigated. We never found a body nor did we find remains of any non-humans.” She flexes her jaw. “I will support Commodore Hammerly’s logic and conclusions, Your Excellency, until my dying breath or until I am proved otherwise.”

The Moff regards them with no small degree of scrutiny, clearly agitated at being contested, but they stand firm and unmoving. The command core has lapsed into a tension so thick it could be cut with a vibroblade. A bubble of anxiety twists in Ainija’s throat, threatening to crush her lungs and suffocate her. They could be struck down at any second for their conduct, for their alleged failure to make progress in the hunt. For _treason_ if the Moff was in the right mood.

But they stood resolute, ready to die for their beliefs if necessary.

After what felt like a life age of the universe, Moff Gideon pockets the datapad and sighs through his nose. “You have one week standard, Commodore Hammerly. I suggest you do not fail.”

~*~

Thrawn had been the one to haul Ezra to the medbay two decks above, and had carried the young man as if he’d weighed no more than a handful of tooka fur. But Din had been assigned to his care. Clearly, even after ten years and who knew how many prior of dealing with humans had not been enough for him to learn or retain anything about human physiology. The child does seem particularly worried, though Filia’s face upon hearing the news shifts from entirely indifferent to overprotective in the blink of an eye. It’s almost endearing, if Din actually trusted the woman.

There’s just something about _her_ that makes his hair stand on end. Not only is he posing as the not-quite-but-really-kind-of-is _husband_ of an Imperial, but there’s _another one_ in the cockpit that he’s supposed to trust to get them all to safety. And for as much as Thrawn totes about not needing as much sleep as humans, Din seems to sleep the least out of all of them -especially when one figures in Thrawn’s impromptu nap sessions in the most nonsensical places possible (he was found on a shelf in the pantry yesterday, dead to the world around noon, ship’s time, and had hissed upon discovery). In the week they’ve been traveling, he’s slept perhaps an two or three hours each night, and that’s being generous.

But none of that is of any matter in the moment as he eases Ezra into a sitting position with every intent of forcing the stubborn kid to actually eat something. He’s been awake all of two hours and coherent for perhaps a quarter of that time, but the best way to a speedy recovery is to fuel the body.

“Thrawn said this is what he made the last time you were sick,” Din explains, passing the mug of soup to him. Mugs, in his adoptive parents’s rationale, were easier to hold when ill. One could also be persuaded to drink the soup if a spoon was too much work. And to his surprise, it appeared to be a universal concept. Thrawn had been the one to initially suggest it. “It should be about the right temperature to eat now.”

Ezra manages a small “thanks” as he tests the weight of the mug in his still shaky grip. “I don’t even know what happened… I helped the kiddo into his meditation and was finally dropping into mine when the voices started crying out…” he drifts off, words muffled by the mug at his lips and eyes focusing and unfocusing on various things in the small room.

“What did the voices say?” Din asks, a new wave of anxiety stabbing at his chest. “Was it us? Flashbacks?”  
The Jedi shakes his head a little and lowers the mug. “No, I don’t know who or what it was. But they were lost, desperate. In pain.” He draws in a long, shuddering breath, fingers drumming uncomfortably against the mug. “They were looking for something, begging for help. I tried to reach them, but…” Again, he trails off, pain in his eyes. “I tried to find a balance, but I couldn’t. I don’t remember anything else.”

Din feels a pang of pity for him. Helplessness… It’s the worst feeling anyone can experience, but helpless to prevent further suffering when one _knows_ they can offer aide? Unimaginable. “Is there anything any of us can do to help _you_?” Din asks, “For now, at least. Rossi says we’ll be coming up on Ord Canfre soon, so we can take a bit of a layover and rest up.”

Ezra’s face twists in thought as he takes another long sip of the broth, seeming to weigh his options and thoughts. After a long moment, his face grows dark. “We can’t stop anywhere.” He says suddenly. “Too much of this space is controlled by the Imperial Remnant. You and the kid’ll be snatched right up and hauled off who knows where. We’ll never make it to the Ascendancy if we stop.” He’s quiet for another moment, and quite frankly Din is too confused to speak. “It’s best if we just push through.”

“I’ll let her know,” Din says hesitantly. “Feeling any better?”

Ezra peaks over the brim of the mug, a glint of worry behind his eyes that Din has seen far too many times in the mirror. “I’ll be fine.”


	11. The Maelstrom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 - The Maelstrom

_Pride is a deadly, if not fickle, thing, often accompanied in life by greed and an insatiable desire for power and -subsequently- control over ones’ environment and the people within that environment. And more often than not, one is tempted to sacrifice their integrity to that desire. But to give in to these temptations is to endanger the greater good of those within the environment, and thus it is the most devastating force within any society or civilization. We have all of history to prove this, for it is not folklore of eons past. It is our present, and it is our future, for greed is inescapable to the masses._

He assumes that the entire thing is just a well-placed coincidence, but if his time among humans has taught Thrawn anything, it’s that they’re all scheming, selfish little bastards who care about little else outside of themselves. And _this_ -this is just too good to be pure chance.

Thrawn can’t _quite_ remember how he ended up in the little alcove, nor does he know exactly _why_ he’s there, only that he had previously been sleeping when the distinct sound of a clumsy human tripping and swearing snaps him awake. It is not Bridger, that much he is certain. The man is still all but bedridden. Nor is it Djarin and his distorted amber, leaving precisely one other possibility. Weaving his trap, Thrawn slows his breathing once more and closes his eyes, to dim their glow.

_A pattern is tapped against the metal of the ship’s hull, rhythmic, then arhythmic, then rhythmic once more. A code, perhaps._

He does not need to strain to listen, only to listen long enough to prove his theory and act before more damage can be done.

_It is a simple message, though containing enough vital information to derail the entire operation and put at risk the safety of all those aboard._

Silent to any ear, Thrawn lowers himself into a crouch before peaking over the side of the shipping containers. He sees only the top of a head and hunched shoulders, but the tapping is more distinct now. _And the message is repeated_.

Thrawn swallows a growl.

 _He should’ve known better_.

No wonder she’d been trying to get them to land on Imperial worlds to - _needlessly-_ restock supplies.

“I trust you have quite a story to explain why you are transmitting both our current position _and_ our heading to _presumably_ unknown sources,” Thrawn says darkly, rising from his hiding place.

Filia’s eyes widen in horror. “Admiral-!”

“Now now,” he chides, striding across the bay to loom over her. “Do you truly believe that I will be fooled by any possible alibi you have created?” Thrawn stands regally now, shoulders drawn back and hands clasped lovely at the base of his spine. Exile does not simply erase nearly three decades of military service -especially when the majority of that time is spent in the uniform of a leader. The stance comes as easily to him as breathing, and he breathes in with renewed assurance.

She is, Thrawn notes, predictably silent. It is the same look of dread that both Lieutenant Lyste and Agent Kallus had worn when their own plots and treasons had been discovered, and it is the same look that Thrawn himself once wore as his life was called to an abrupt halt by exile.

But the expression is gone the moment it appears, and Filia squares her shoulders, doing everything in her limited power to match Thrawn’s height. She opens her mouth to speak, but she no longer outranks him, and the _Stardust_ is technically under the joint command of himself and the Mandalorian.

_She is aware that she will have no say in how these events now unfold, and her expression shifts to reflect the revelation. Where she has been caught off-guard, there is now fear of retribution._

“Be advised, _Captain_ ,” Thrawn says cooly, inclining his chin a bit and looking down the bridge of his nose at her, the flash of heat in her chest and neck indicative of rising anger lighting up the dark of the alcove. “You are alive now because I am allowing it and because you still serve a purpose to this ship and her passengers. And the moment you lose your value to me, I will see to it that you are dealt with in a manner befitting a traitor.”

He does not show this side of himself often, for it lacks the unyielding calm that his crews have latched onto and respected. But in the times that he has -in private, away from prying eyes and keen ears- he does not allow himself to show mercy. And while he may not kill, never once has he allowed the victim any peace of mind as they leave his presence knowing that their lives may be terminated or further tortured at any moment without warning.

“ _You’re_ the traitor, Thrawn,” Rossi hisses, eyes narrowing to slits. “Harboring fugitives of the Empire, transporting them through and across boarders with blatant disregard for the law-“

Thrawn finds himself thankful for the design of her jacket as he slams her against the wall, raised just a few inches from the ground. “My loyalties are _not_ to a _fallen Empire_ ,” he sneers. “You will do well to remember that I am indeed an _insurgent_ wherever I step foot. The Mandalorian has entrusted himself and his child to my care, and I will see to it that they are delivered to safety; _away from the shattered remains of the Empire and all those who would seek to do them harm._ ”

_Her face is riddled with anger and hate, with betrayal and irritation._

Filia spits at him. “Then you will die.”

“I may have mercy,” Thrawn says evenly. “My people’s judgement will not. Once they discover it was you who endangered the life of an innocent child, your life will be forfeit, as will the lives of those foolish enough to pursue us once we reach the Chaos.” He pauses, thinking. “Which, by your recently suggested heading, should be any moment now.”

~*~

The first thing he hears is frantic chattering in _heavily_ accented Cheunh. Not the accent of a human speaker, that much is certain. But rather, the chatter of someone much like himself, someone who learned the art of speech away from the sophistication of _mainstream_ society who ultimately spent countless hours forcing away their own personal touch to the art.

 _Art_.

Now he just sounded like-

 _Of course that would be his first waking thought_ , Eli curses himself, eyes barely open. There’s a flash of blue and silver, though that could be _anyone_ , and he can’t see well enough to make out any shoulder patches or faces. The accented voice _does_ have a particular squeak to it that Eli would know _anywhere_ , however…

He blinks, a mangled groan tearing through his throat, and the chatter stops. Before Eli can even _think_ again, a medic has swooped in with a -for lack of all better terms- child’s sipping cup of nearly-frozen water. Another is scribbling furiously at an oversized questis, occasionally peaking between him and the machines he’s hooked up to. It certainly isn’t the first time Eli’s been subjected to Chiss medical practices, but each time he’s more and more appreciative of their exceptionally “hands off” approach. The idea of being poked at and prodded by any number of strangers makes him uneasy.

Still, he’s able to hold the cup with the medic’s help and manages to swallow without much issue. Eli tries to talk, to question _what in Hell’s name happened_ , but the medic just keeps holding the cup to his mouth until he’s drank it all. And even after that, a thermometer is stuffed in his mouth before he can even _think_ to protest. It’s uncomfortable, but not at all as bad as it _could_ be.

When the thermometer is finally removed, Eli coughs once then clears his throat as much as he can. “What happened?”

The medic, he can now see the shoulder patch enough to identify her as a Sabosen, looks over her questis at him with raised brows. “Senior Commander Zicher discovered you unconscious in a lift with a wound to your head-“ Her eyes widen a little, “Don’t worry,” She corrects quickly, “I assumed you hit your head in the fall, which I confirmed when I inspected the site an hour ago.” She chuckles a little to herself, though at what Eli cannot possibly imagine. At his misfortune? She wouldn’t _dare_ -

“Caused an entire ruckus,” She continues before Eli can get a word in. “I’ve never seen the commander so worked up over something.” Then, for some inexplicable reason, her eyes soften -as much as blank, glowing red can soften, of course. “She’ll be happy to know you’re awake again.”

Eli offers a wry smile, desperately trying to ignore the pounding in his skull. “How long before I can get back to my bridge?”

The medic chuckles a little. “Well, we did check for any _serious_ head injuries… From what we could tell by comparing them to the scans we took when compiling your base profile, everything seems to be well enough in order. I imagine you’ll have quite the headache for a few hours, but there’s no lasting damage.”

Something about that doesn’t sit well with him, but then again, that’s just how Chiss _are_. “Anything short-term that I need to worry about?” _Like blurry vision and a headache that could kill a wampa?_ He thinks bitterly.

She glances down at her questis, then sighs. “No. But if you fins it difficult to stand or balance, please report back here.”

Eli nods absently as he tests his balance sitting up. So far, so good. Standing is not much more of a challenge once he gets his bearings, and within the hour he’s back in his quarters in a fresh uniform, waiting for Zicher’s report from his time spent unconscious.

~*~

Filia swallows roughly, flexing her grip on the yoke. Even with Bridger’s navigation, following ieach and every twitch of his fingers and instruction in her mind is nearly impossible. As he leads them past a nebular cloud, Djarin cuts the hyperdrive and the coast through the impossible clouds of dust and gases. For all of the terror that clenches around her heart and lungs, it’s utterly breathtaking to experience. In the swirls of hyperspace tucks safely within predetermined lanes, she’s never had the chance to see the beauty of the space she traverses. To be given such a gift _now_ …

She forces a breath from her nose as she guides the nose of the _Stardust_ up and over a swell of pale lilac, letting her breath match the incline of the ship. The exhale does not come until Bridger tells her _down, but just a little._

_Starboard now, a lot. Sharp. NOW._

_Djarin adjusts the thrusters accordingly and the bow narrowly misses an asteroid the size of a small moon_.

Filia clenches her jaw once more, trying not to think of the barely-there avoidance. Any closer and they might’ve been caught in its gravitational pull.

_Easy now._

She thinks she feels his grip on her shoulder tighten, and it does nothing to settle her already fried nerves. There’s already a good chance she’ll be unable to let go of the yoke for several long moments after they’re safe and on solid ground again.

Bridger twitches and his grip loosens momentarily. If she dared take her eyes off the dash or the viewport, she thinks that Thrawn might be behind the boy, ready to catch him if he falls.

_Pitch 40 degrees port-side._

_We need to go faster_

Again she sees Djarin make his adjustments out of the corner of her eye and the muscles in her calves and toes tense. _Only the most subtle expressions of anxiety in His Majesty’s Navy,_ Filia reminds herself.

For a brief moment, hyperspace swirls around the _Stardust_. Then, as quickly as it happened, Djarin drops the vessel out of light speed, presumably on Bridger’s command. Filia spares a glance at the existence around her, marveling at the gas giant they now coast beside and its myriad of pinks and blues, and her breath is once more stolen from her lungs. Space, for all the time she had spent in it, had never shown her such beauty. She thinks she can hear a small awed gasp from under the Mandalorian’s helm, no doubt for the same reason.

 _“Steady.”_ She recognizes Thrawn’s voice, though it is barely above a whisper and clearly spoken for Bridger’s sake. They’ll be lucky to come out unscathed.

He calls to her again, and Filia pulls the yoke towards her sternum, twisting it ever-so-slightly to her left. They need to keep out of the giant’s gravity if they have any hope of making to Chiss space with the little fuel they have remaining. A glance at the gauge in question only confirms her anxiety and allows its roots to twist around her stomach.

As if sensing her dread, which he likely _had_ , Bridger speaks to them again with resolve.

 _Accelerate towards the dwarf, bearing 20 by 181_.

Filia watches as the gauges around them flicker with a new array of readings, none of them very much in their favor, and draws a tight breath through her teeth. _They’re going to make it. They don’t have a choice. They are going to make it._

“ _Just a little longer, Ezra,”_ Thrawn soothes. She can hear the subtle twist of paranoia in his voice that he only ever used when he was uncertain of her orders. Like he _knew_ that she would come out on the losing team. And he had always been _right_.

Filia isn’t sure if she likes that tone in this particular context.

_Use the gravity._

_Increase speed by ten percent in three…_

Djarin’s shoulders tighten as he follows the direction.

_...two…_

Filia knows what he’s trying. They need to conserve their dwindling fuel reserves, and this is the best way to do it. Risky, but their only hope.

_…now!_

Djarin does so, and the ship lurches.

_Follow the atmospheric curve_

_Increase by sixty percent on my mark…_

Filia makes the adjustment without physical hesitation. She’s seen this maneuver executed both flawlessly and with great loss of life. She’d rather be the latter, but there’s no telling. Not with the utterly jerry-rigged setup they’ve concocted. She can’t trust it enough to be comfortable with it, but there isn’t another choice.

_Now!_

The _Stardust_ shoots free of the uppermost atmosphere of the dwarf world and the ship lurches again, this time more violently. _Gozanti_ freighters were absolutely _not_ built for this kind of strain.

Behind her, there is a small sigh of relief and she wonders if Thrawn had been just as scared by the maneuver.

 _“You’re doing brilliantly, Ezra._ ”

_Adjust course, heading zero-three-five-eight._

Filia does so almost instantly, mind drifting to Thrawn’s remark. _Just a little longer._

_Prepare for hyperspace jump…now!_

The _Stardust_ ’s navicomputer is spectacularly under-equipped to handle the Chaos, as Thrawn had called it. Once The subtle adjustments that constantly need to be made are too sharp for even the most advanced technology. It needs a human touch.

Filia corrects herself.

 _It needs a Force-Sensitive’s touch_.

While in hyperspace, there’s little she can do but wait for Bridger’s next adjustment. It gives her nerves too much time to buzz and her mind too much time to think. It’s almost past the point of overwhelming.

Her fingers are already shaking violently.

 _Bring us out_.

With very, very little warning, Djarin drops the _Stardust_ out of hyperspace and suddenly Filia is staring down the nose of an entirely unfamiliar vessel that is _oh so clearly_ a warship, and she freezes. Bridger’s death-grip is gone from her shoulder—

Filia’s jaw works in an attempt to swallow her fear, and Thrawn leaping to reach the comm unit does absolutely nothing to help. Not when she can _see their weapons powering up against a defenseless ship._

“ _Unidentified vessel, this is Vice-Admiral Mitth’eli’vant of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force. You are trespassing in Chiss space. Make your identity known to us.”_


	12. The Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 - The Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tappy keyboard came in today so I just kinda went ham on this chapter... The sound it makes when I type is lovely and I love hearing it so I type more XD this what resulted.  
> Not sure if "Ar'alani's Mom Voice(tm)" is a warning, but it probably should be.

Theliva all but falls out of his command chair at the sight laid out before him through the viewport, mind racing. A _Gozanti_ freighter? This far into the Unknown Regions? There’s only a few possible explanations, and none of them make a lick of sense in the real world. The first scenario is a lost merchant or trader, but the pilots would have to be some type of lucky to survive _this_ far in one piece. The second, and much more likely, scenario is that the Empire has finally gotten brave enough to test its luck with eh Ascendancy, though Theliva doubts _that_ even more than the existence of a lucky trader. Especially after the destruction of Thrawn’s fleet a _decade_ ago. Without him, they’d be lacking the necessary link between societies. Theliva scratches that off the list.

He’s not sure what other scenarios are about to play out before him, but the concept of facing such an unknown with little guidance is unsettling.

_At least Ar’alani is only a few minutes out..._

Theliva draws in a deep, measured breath and resets his posture. “Helm, bring us about. I want to be able to look out my viewport into their’s. Lieutenant Caerik, ready salvos just in case these _pirates_ have any tricks up their sleeves.” He can’t remember _Gozanti_ freighters ever having any sort of substantial armaments, if _any_ , but in this part of space, it’s always better to ask for forgiveness than to wait for permission.

At her own console, Zicher taps away at the screens for a moment before turning her attention to the sensor station. _Damned Kivu triplets._ “Lieutenant Vurinam? How many-“

“I’m Vuoroas, Ma’am,” he speaks up.

 _They really should wear napetapes_ , Theliva grumbles to himself.

Zicher sighs. “My apologies, Lieutenant Vuoroas _,_ how many life forms do you read?”

“Five, Commander,” Vuoroas flicks at his console and the data appears on the spreads in front of Theliva and Zicher. “I cannot tell their species, or any specifics.”

“Cargo?” Theliva lifts a brow. Five? Normally _Gozanti’s_ ran with _at least_ fifty aboard, most of them stormtroopers.

Vuoroas switches the array with a handful of taps and shakes his head. “None, Admiral.”

Theliva lets out a slow breath, turning just in time to see the Commander visibly shudder. “Senior Commander?”

Her lips move, but she does not speak. Not for several heavy moments.

“There are two Sky-Walkers aboard,” she murmurs, looking as if she’s about to be sick. “One is wounded... And the other...” Zicher flinches, fingers tightening around the edge of the console.

Theliva’s eyes narrow. None of this was random. Not the ship piloted by a Mandalorian and carrying a Jedi, not his own injuries, and certainly not _this_ ship’s sudden appearance. He glances at the running ETA of the _Vigilant_ in one corner and bites the inside of his cheek. They can’t wait for Ar’alani’s support. “Ensign Remowa, open all external channels on all frequencies.” He squares his posture, as is fitting for one of his station.

“Channels open, sir.”

With one last breath, his resolve solidifies. “Unidentified vessel, this is Vice-Admiral Mitth’eli’vant of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force. You are trespassing in Chiss space. Make your identity known to us.”

The speakers crackle with feedback for a few, agonizing seconds before any semblance of a reply comes.

“ _This is the private trade vessel_ Stardust _, I am Mitth’raw’nuruodo, Merit Adoptive of House Mitth._ ” The voice is rich and deep and speaks in Sy Bisti. It’s familiar, but impossible, and Theliva chokes on his own breath as if he’s been gut-checked by a Nightdragon.

“Remowa?”

The Ensign swallows whatever anxiety has bubbled up in their throat. “Channels are still open, sir. On your command.”

He takes a steadying breath and glances at Zicher, who looks as if she’s seen a ghost. In reality, it’s likely that they _are_ seeing a ghost. Choosing to ignore the blatantly false identity of the pilot, Theliva opens the channel again. “Trade vessel _Stardust_ , we will escort you out of Chiss territory and to the nearest safe route back to Lesser Space.”

“Sir,” Vuoroas pipes up. “The _Vigilant_ has adjusted her course and increased speed. She’ll be coming out of hyperspace in ten seconds.”

“ _Vice-Admiral, is it?”_ The voice breaks out over the speakers again, sending a collective shiver down the spines of Theliva’s crew. “ _And “Theliva”? When last I heard it was still “Ivant”. I see a great many things have changed._ ”

Theliva grits his teeth. _He’s still unconscious and this is just his head playing to all of those nightmares and foolish hopes._

“Admiral, the _Vigilant_ is dropping out of hyperspace behind the alien ship!” Vuoroas says a bit loudly.

At his station, Remowa flinches. “Sounds like Admiral Ar’alani picked up on the last bit of the _Stardust’s_ last comm...” Another flinch, “She’s giving them hell, Admiral.”

“Put it through the main speakers,” Theliva bites out. Today has already been too long... and a nap sounds lovely.

“All due respect sir, I don’t think that’s-“ the ensign winces, “-a good idea...”

“And why not?” He challenges.

Remowa looks utterly scandalized, but his cheeks puff momentarily in poorly contained laughter before he can school his expression.

“Ensign...”

“ _-and if you ever decide to pull such a hairbrained stunt again, Kivu’raw’nuru, I will personally see to it that whatever’s left of you is delivered to the Homestead for one final ass-kicking. I swear by every moon in the Ascendancy, if you’ve got any more kraytshit plans in that head of yours I’ll-“_

Theliva recoils a little at the Admiral’s less-than-affectionate scolding and the ensign cuts the audio. “I think it’s best just to let her deal with this for the moment...” He sighs.

“Theliva?” Beside him, Zicher’s face is riddled with confusion, pain, and fear, and it makes his heart drop. “We’ll have to take them into custody to be sure... Should I send for Captain Ceowazar?”

He shakes his head. “The _Vigilant_ is better equipped to deal with this. I’ll send word to High Command that we’ve... _caught_ another rouge vessel.”

“And Patriarch Ras’safis?”

“Yes, him too.” Theliva sighs once more, the throbbing in his head worsening. He’s entirely too tired for this and his head is still spinning. “Remowa, send a transmission directly to the _Vigilant’_ s bridge. Tell Admiral Ar’alani that our brig is at capacity. I don’t want any trouble, but keeping them together, or at least on the same ship, might lead to some interesting conversations that might just tell un more about why they’re here.” He turns to Zicher, a knowing grimace plastered to his face. “I’d rather not have a repeat of this morning’s events, Senior Commander.”

She matches his gaze, tone for tone. There isn’t much that can rattle a Sky-Walker, Theliva knows. Especially not an _Irizi_ Sky-Walker. And although she _respects_ Theliva as a capable officer and superior, his orders, especially ones that regard _her specifically_ hold little weight in her mind.

“Message sent, Admiral,” Remowa beams, far too chipper for the gravity of the situation. “And there’s an incoming message from Supply, sir. Should I relay it to your personal office?”

Theliva lifts a cursory brow. “Unless something is on fire or we’re dangerously low on rations, it can wait until _after_ we’ve dealt with the _Stardust_ situation.” The vessel’s name sets him on edge, memories of his last tour with the Imperial Navy settling uncomfortably into the front of his mind.

It’s Remowa’s turn to make a face, but they nod.

“Has the _Vigilant_ responded?” Zicher jumps in before Theliva can get another word in.

“I’m not sure the Admiral is through with her, um…” Remowa grimaces. “…lecturing yet, Ma’am. But her first officer has cleared the request on her behalf and has ordered the ship be brought aboard by tractor beam.”

Zicher’s shoulders relax a little. “That’ll be sufficient, I suppose. Just so long as the issue is contained. Send our acknowledgement and…” She looks to Theliva, who’s jaw is so tight she’s worried it may snap off. “Inform her that I’ll do my best to _persuade_ Admiral Theliva to make an appearance at some point soon.”

“Yes ma’am,” Remowa nods stiffly. “Will that be all?”

“For now. Som—“

“Someone still has to send word to Csilla and Copero that some death certificates need to be burnt.” Theliva visibly deflates. “I’m sure Patriarch Ras’safis will be absolutely _delighted._ ”

Across the bridge, someone snorts and another mumbles a quiet “oh dear”. In Theliva’s opinion, both accurate interpretations, if entirely inappropriate when spoken on his bridge.

“ _Vice Admiral, we are bringing the_ Stardust _aboard.”_ Ar’alani’s voice cuts into the air, “ _I understand you will be joining us soon?”_

Theliva shoots both Remowa and Zicher a withering glare, and the latter only smiles in silent triumph. The admiral shakes his head in careful resignation, keying the comm back on. “That is correct Admiral. Once the prisoners are secured, myself and Commander Zicher will join. Thus far, her _talents_ for extracting valuable information have been quite useful.”

“ _You are indeed proficient in Cheunh, Theliva,_ ” Ar’alani offers a good-natured chuckle, _“Sarcasm is indeed difficult to master and yet you have done so flawlessly.”_

~*~

Thunhe listens to the exchange with no small degree of amusement, thankful for the temporary distraction from the new wave of fear and anxiety that radiates off of the vessel being drug into the ship’s cargo hold. She doesn’t like the feeling, it reminds her too much of her sisters when they would travel in groups for particularly long or dangerous missions. Back in her own head, Thunhe takes a moment to list their names and forces herself not to think of their empty eyes staring at her as _she_ tried to save the vessels when they had failed. How many of those missions had she survived? Two? Three? Too many, she finally decided. It should never have happened, and there is guilt with each incident. Why had the universe decided that _she_ needed to live and not any of the others? Their lives, cut too short by-

“Do you wish to accompany me to the cargo bay?” Soft as icesilk, her Auntie’s voice cuts into her thoughts. “I certainly understand if you do not, given your history with-“

“I will go,” Thunhe says quickly, jumping a little at her own verbal intrusion. “I… I would like to meet the Sky-Walkers. They make me curious.”

A curiosity that is indeed given a feast of answers, Thunhe finds, and her eagerness outweighs the shortness of her legs in comparison to the Admiral’s impossible strides. Though, she is huffing and puffing a little bit. This, she thinks decidedly, is why she has shied away from military service. Thunhe isn’t sure she could keep up with their physical training.

Her talents are best suited elsewhere, she reminds herself.

 _There are exactly thirty-six soldiers standing in perfect rows on three sides of the massive freighter’s only exit, all with charrics raised and aimed. The thirty-seventh is front and center, likely their commander._ Curious, she thinks. Thunhe cannot remember a time when she ever served beside actual _soldiers_. She only ever really knew the bridge crews, and even then, it was only in passing…

Her auntie’s strides are tall and proud, Thunhe decides. She is regal and holds her head like the queens in the story books her father would read to her when she was scared. Surely, she thinks, Ar’alani will be a very very bight star in the sky when her times comes.

“Captain Colaizlir,” Ar’alani addresses the stone-faced woman with a respectful nod. “Shall we?”

Colaizlir rolls her shoulders and Thunhe takes it as a cue to _not_ stand nearby. She retreats to a corner of the soldiers’ formation with a good vantage point, practically vibrating with nerves. She can sense the anxieties of everyone around her -even that of the soon to be prisoners that have yet to disembark their vessel. A breath, drawn slowly through her nose and filtered through her lungs, and Ar’alani has raised her voice enough to be a threat, but not enough to make her outwardly dangerous.

“This is High Admiral Ar’alani of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force,” she shouts without actually shouting, “You are hereby ordered to surrender yourselves and your vessel, and to disembark with your hands in the air. You have thirty seconds to comply or we will be forced to take action.”

~*~

Thrawn holds the child a little closer as Djarin tenses beside him. He hadn’t liked the idea of passing care of the child to Thrawn, but the logic had been that Djarin appeared to be more of a threat, and therefore would be best received if his hands were fully visible. Reluctantly, he agreed. There isn’t much that can be done about Rossi, that’s a conversation he’ll have with Ar’alani _later_ , but her hands are also indisposed. Bridger’s conscious had failed moments after the _Lighthope_ cornered them, and the traitorous captain had taken it upon herself to carry the young man.

He swallows his worry as the hatch lowers and his kin come into view, and once they are in full sight, Thrawn takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Our Navigator requires medical attention,” He tells them gravely, “and we travel with a child. We are not a threat-“

“But you, Kivu’raw’nuru,” Admiral Ar’alani replies cooly, “are still under the law of exile, and thereby in violation of Criminal Act 0113-10, Section 8.” _High Admiral now, it appears. As it should have been many years ago. Is that a Binding Ring-?_

Thrawn flinches. _He’d almost forgotten about that law._ If he didn’t watch is step at every second, he could be executed for treason.

“I am well aware, High Admiral.” Keeping the balance of gravity and politeness in his tone is…difficult. Regrettably, and entirely against his better judgement, he has grown attached to the child. “Though, we may have far more _pressing_ issues at hand than my own violations.” Thrawn glances at Rossi pointedly. Then, switching to Cheunh, he says, “The woman has become a threat to the safety of our Navigator and the Sighted One we now care for. The Mandalorian seeks asylum, safety for his child.” He tips his head towards the child, who is thankfully napping in his swaddle. “Please. I fear that the Ascendancy is their only hope.”

_Ar’alani holds his gaze for a long moment, her own eyes bright in contemplation. She does not take the matter of life, especially that of a child, lightly, nor does she easily dismiss perceived threats._

_She turns, searching the room for something…for someone._

“Medical Offcer Mitth’un’hee, front and center _now_.”

Thrawn tears his attention away from the admiral to the small figure slipping through the ranks of marines, dressed for her station and clutching a bag as if it is a lifeline. He can just make out the freckles dotting her cheeks and nose, and there is a distinct scar tracing the left side of her face from hairline to jaw.

He certainly did not see the little Sky-Walker taking up this career, though he’s not entirely sure she’s old enough to have the proper training t one aboard a _Nightdragon_. But, if Ar’alani trusts her…

_She does not stand at attention, as a military woman might, nor does her posture suggest such training. A student still, perhaps._

“The child will be in the care of the medical corps until such time as the Mandalorian proves that he can be trusted,” Ar’alani’s voice is sharp, caring only the barest minimum of mercy. “As will you’re Navigator.”

_Her body language suggests hesitance, a rare insecurity and lack of confidence._

“Vice Admiral Mitth’eli’vant will be your representative until such time as you are delivered to Copero for preliminary trials. Until then-“

 _Her voice holds pain, as if the implications of her orders will bring about a long-foreseen nightmare that she wishes to avoid, but which is inescapable_.

“-You no longer are protected under the Rights of the Named, and shall be treated as a political refugee and a political refugee only.”

Djarin is the first of their crew to speak, aside from Thrawn. “Care to translate for the rest of us?” He demands under his breath.

Thrawn sighs, addressing Ar’alani first. “A moment, Admiral. My crew speaks neither Cheunh nor a trade language.” When she nods, albeit with reluctance, and he turns to the others. “We are to be treated as refugees, not as prisoners,” he explains. “That is the nature of our doctrine. We, as a crew, have not shown reason to be perceived as threats and thereby will not be treated as such.” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “I would trust my own life to the Ascendancy’s medical professionals. I can assure you the child and Ezra will be much safer there than anywhere else.”

_There is a subtle shift in the Mandalorian’s posture. Perhaps containing fear, perhaps displaying resistance. For his own good, the former is greatly preferred._

“The kid stays with me,” Djarin grinds out. “Tell them that he’s not leaving my sight.”

Thrawn shakes his head. “I am afraid that will only see you to becoming a threat to the Admiral, and I can assure you, her wrath is entirely unpleasant to endure, and even worse of a fate will befall you once the Syndics hear of your actions. Compliance is survival.” Form the corner of his vision, he sees Ar’alani lift an accusatory brow. She does understand a fair bit of Basic, that much he knows, thus she surely is able to understand their exchange with some high degree of accuracy.

“No.”

Another sigh passes his lips. “Djarin…” _His own voice carries warning, a warning which will hopefully be heeded by the man._

_His helm tips, likely analyzing the medical officer with no small degree of scrutiny. It is likely that he will not think her suitable for the task._

“Tell your _pet_ that we do not have time for his deliberation.” Ar’alani snaps, now in near-perfect -albeit heavily accented- Basic. “Surrender the Navigator and the Sighted to Mitth’un’hee’s care and no harm will come to any.” Then, eyes shifting to the Mandalorian, she adds, “I suggest you comply. At present, you are doing little but harming your-“

_She is cut off as her comm unit pings with urgency._

“Ar’alani.”

 _Her face draws in confusion, but the expression fades as soon as it appears, becoming one of quiet amusement, perhaps calm_.

“I look forward to it, Admiral. He will be under guard in guests’ quarters.” A smile graces her lips as she pockets the unit and she nods politely at the Captain beside her. In the moments that have passed, a team of medics has appeared and convinced Rossi to release Ezra to them. Before him now is Mitth’un’hee, looking expectantly at the swaddled child.

“I remember you,” she whispered. “You are a hero to the Sky-Walkers, Raw’nuruodo. We thank you for your service.” Her hair falls in her face as she dips her head. “Tell the Armored One not to fear. That we Chiss protect children of all races with our lives.”

His heart softens a little.

_So, Un’hee was adopted into the Mitth. A great victory for the House, indeed._

“She will care for him,” Thrawn paraphrases. “Chiss protect children unto our dying breaths.”

Slowly, and with great hesitance, the Mandalorian nods and Thrawn passes the still-sleeping bundle off to Mitth’un’hee before allowing himself to be placed in binders.

Thrawn has absolutely no idea how much time has passed. Perhaps an hour, perhaps many. But he has paced around the quarters offered to him no less than ten times, covering every inch of floorspace. He’d almost forgotten how utterly _lacking_ in personality guest quarters could be, although it was a far cry from the creative drought within the Empire. The perpetual grey was soul-sucking and threatened to drive him mad on the daily. At least the Mitth designers and engineers has allowed for a more aesthetically pleasing lines and shapes, he thought with a bittersweet fondness. So many memories, so many lives lost…

Running a hand along the back of a chair, he draws in a deep breath. The recycled air aboard his own ships in the Empire had been the wrong kind of cold. He had never been able to explain why -it just _was_. Being back aboard a Chiss ship, he found it much easier to breathe properly. In fact, this might even mark the end of the tightness in his chest that often led to coughing fits behind closed doors. Their doctors, of course, had absolutely no idea what had been troubling him, and it had gone largely unchecked for a long span of time. 

The familiar chime of the hatch slices into his thoughts, and with a press of a button Thrawn finds himself staring at a sun-brown face and greying hair, all draped in the pristine white of an Admiral.

“Good day, Raw’nuruodo.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes Act 1...


	13. The Named

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12 - The Named

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Spoilers for Chapter 13 of The Mandalorian!!! Turn back if you haven't seen it yet!!!!!
> 
> ...or don't. You've been warned.

_The mind of a child is perhaps the most pure and curious mind to ever exist. It is full of wonder and awe and unsullied innocence. As those who are grown, it is our job to protect these minds at all costs, to preserve their futures and potential. For children are our legacies, our key to survival. A community cannot thrive without its children, and children cannot thrive without a community. Children are, in ever sense of the phrase, our future._

Thunhe makes a face as she holds the spoon in front of the little green baby, pleading for at least one bite to be taken without hassle. With any luck at all, they’ll get through the bowl of soup without any more incidents involving the child’s freaky magic. A long shot, she knows, but perhaps her hope is what is detrimental.

“Alright, one more spoon then I’ll draw a bath for you, okay you little icemite?” Thunhe grumbles. “Please?”

The child looks up at her, overly large and brown meeting dim red, and makes a strange burbling noise that makes Thunhe uncomfortable.

“And please don’t make that sound again…” she adds, face scrunching a little. “It’s rude.”

Again the child simply stares, tipping his tiny head a little to one side. This time, thankfully, he opens his tiny mouth and bites down on the spoon.

Thunhe almost leaps up and cheers. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She grins and pats the child’s head gently. “You really are a cute little thing, even if you’re a bit ornery.” The room lapses into silence for a moment, Thunhe deep in thought. Then, setting aside the bowl, she picks him up from the makeshift high chair and sits with him on the small couch in her quarters. “I know you can’t understand me, but I remember when I was little my papa would tell me stories in his language when I couldn’t sleep or was bored… Maybe you’d like to hear stories about us?”

The fear radiating off the little child had wrapped like inky tendrils around her heart almost instantly, filling her with pity and sorrow and a very focused need to dispel it. The child looks up at her with keen interest and what Thunhe assumes is supposed to be a smile. Though, in her eyes, it looks like nothing but mischief. The expression itself gives her pause. Perhaps _spoken_ language is not the way to go, and very quickly the memory of one other fist interactions with Vah’nya leaps to mind.

Face twisted in curious concentration, Thunhe rests her hands gently on either side of the child’s round little face and _thinks_.

_The silent of the outer annex makes her nervous, and the bench she’s found to sit on is cold and uncomfortable. She just wants to go home, back to the ship with Auntie and-_

_The great doors swing open with a rumble and a squeak, and the Mitth’s Patriarch appears, beaming with excitement. On his shadow are her auntie and Mitth’eli’vant. They seem too share in the Patriarch’s excitement, and she perks up a little. “What did they say…?”  
Mitth’eli’vant sits beside her on the uncomfortable bench and holds a black scroll out for her to take. _

_“See for yourself.”_

_She looks between the three, then hesitantly unrolls the paper. Her eyes go wide._

_“They…”_

_Mitth’eli’vant pulls her into a tight hug. “Welcome home, bright eyes.”_

_“…”_

_Auntie allows her to present her Papa’s new rank insignia to him at the ceremony, though confusion plagues her. Technically, he could be stripped of his family name now, but there has been no talk of it. All she’s given is a stiff nod and a quiet promise of a later explanation. It’s…uncomfortable. She doesn’t like knowing things._

_“…”_

_He reaches into the little pond, held steady by warm and gentle hands. A woman’s voice speaks with kindness as his little fist closes around a small water animal and shoves it in his mouth. The voice becomes scolding, but is no less gentle._

_“[…], Grogu, […] no […] […] life […] […] […] […]”_

Thunhe’s eyes snap open, an inquisitive smile plastered to her face. “You name is Grogu?”

The little child’s attention jumps right to her and he squeals in delight.

She laughs. “Good to know.”

~*~

Thrass very nearly jumped for joy and thanked the Goddesses when the hearing was finally ended for the day, himself and the other heads of houses citing that none of them would be able to think clearly while so tired and worn. The downside would be having to return in two days time, further extending the time the poor Irizi woman would spend in limbo. Still, an adjourned hearing and plans to sleep for the entire recess do very little to stop a handful of persistent Aristocra from trailing him down the long halls to his office. And by the time he’s tidying up and packing his things away for the break, Thrass has managed to get rid of all but one.

“A bondage does _not_ hold the same weight as an adoption, Patriarch.” Chaf’orm’bintrano quips, “You of all people should be aware of that after the _Eli’va’nto_ incident.”

Sighing, Thrass simply continues check that he still has all of his datacards, most of the Aristocra’s nonsense going in one ear and right out the other. “And you of all people should know that we managed to amend _several_ articles of Silver Band Doctrine that season. _And_ ” he punctuates the next statement with a crisp huff, “they happen to be the sections that are _currently_ being called into question _again_.”

“It truly amazes me that you were elected Patriarch, Mitth’ras’safis.” Formbi shakes his head as one might when a small child walks into a glass pane for the sixth consecutive time.

“Correction,” Thrass holds up an accusatory finger. “I am _bonded_ to the woman elected Matriarch. Which, by default, made me Patriarch.”

With an impressive lack of grace, the Aristocra drops himself into one of the plush chairs near Thrash’s desk. “Thus further proving my point that bonding does not hold half as much weight as you and those other fools seem to think it does.”

Thrass pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tightly in hopes of blocking out the Aristocra’s nonsense. He’s spent car too much time around politicians that week, now strongly considering just turning his life-mate loose on them all. Certainly the issue would be resolved within the an hour if he did.

Another idea hits him, and Thrass swallows a grin. “I seem to recall overhearing a conversation of yours earlier this week regarding a certain _pet_ that you’ve taken quite the liking to.”

In the corner of his vision, Formbi stiffens.

“Am I to understand that your own Matriarch is unwilling to allow you to proceed with the petition to formally adopt said pet?”

The man’s eyes flash with anger before he can school his features back to neutral boredom. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Form speaks through gritted teeth. “Don’t try to distract or turn this back on me. Your house has already sullied our military, I will not see the rest of our society sullied and tarnished in the same manner.”

It takes a great deal of practiced restraint on Thrass’s part not to whip around and slam the other man right to the floor while lecturing him on the nearly incomprehensible hypocrisy of such a statement coming from the same mouth that has no doubt been-

Thrass don’t allow himself to continue the thought, simply returning to his task of stuffing books back his in shoulder bag and allowing the statement to hang in the air like a toxin. He ignores the lingering glare that is undoubtedly plotting his demise as he slings the back over his shoulders and picks up his day-planner. At some point, Formbi has stood, fingers now laced together in forced politeness.

The Patriarch sighs tiredly. “I don’t know about you, but for me, it’s been a very long and very tiring week.” He offers a sweet smile, laced with malice and allows his shoulders to relax. “So, I’m going to go home, make a cup of tea, pour a bottle of whisky _into_ the tea, then sleep for the next two days.” He pats Formbi’s shoulder politely, picking up on every ounce of rage pouring off the man, and strides out of his office without another word. With any luck, he won’t be followed home. The week has been far too long and the month even longer, and the last thin Thrass needs is another _incident_ to deal with.

He just wants to hug his wife and _sleep_.

Of course, the universe has never favored him and his aide is shouting his name from down the hall, clearly running to cut him off from sweet escape.

Thrass stops in his tracks and turns on is heel as the poor boy skids to a halt and presents a datacard before doubling over with his hands on his knees to catch is breath. “Sorry, Your Honor.” A huff. “Urgent communique from Admiral Ar’alani and the _Vigilant_.” Another deep, pained breath. “Just came in. Phew! Do not-“ a very tired grunt, “-sir- ever try to sprint from the southern end of the complex all the way here.”

Thrass takes the card, shaking his head a little. “Noted. What does the overlord of the Expansionary Fleet have to say now?”

The aide looks just a little more than offended at the implication. “Your Honor, I would never-“

“Oh?” Thrass lifts a challenging brow and the young man deflates.

“You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself, sir.”

“Oh, alright then,” he sighs. So much for being home in time to help with dinner... “Let’s go.”

There is not much in the universe that is capable of knocking Patriarch Mith’ras’safis into speechlessness, if anything it all. But now, collapsed into his desk chair and mouth hanging agape, simply attempting to recall how to _breathe_ feels impossible, never mind speaking. Tears prick hot at the back of his eyes as his subconscious forces his lungs to inflate again, and he’s painfully aware of his aide’s concerned stare.

“It can’t be…”

~*~

“Good Day, Admiral Theliva,” Thrawn dips his head respectfully before stepping aside to allow the man to enter the room. “My congratulations for the promotions. It is well-earned and truthfully long overdue.”

_Eli’s posture is forced, though what lies beneath it is a mystery._

“Thanks,” is his reply, “And I’m sorry about your… I assume they finally got tired of you showing everyone up and discharged you?”

 _Strange that he should speak Cheunh..._ Thrawn thinks, unable to hide his frown in time. _It is quite out of character for him._

“That is not entirely untrue. My departure was certainly not of my own doing, but it was not the fault of the Empire.” He nods to the chairs, “Please, sit.”

Theliva wastes no time doing so, although he is terribly stiff about it. There is a subtle twitching in his fingers, one that Thrawn cannot recall the man having. Perhaps the result of an injury?

“So the kid _was_ telling the truth about the purgill,” Theliva mumbles, “I thought he was just making the story up or something.”

“I assure you,” Thrawn says with a wince, the hellish feeling of tentacles suffocating him still clear in his memory, “he was not lying.”

_The silence that follows holds unease. Perhaps waiting conflict._

He takes a moment to finally _see_ Eli, to take the information and update his memory. The pristine white of an Admiral suits him well, Thrawn thinks, and though it is more grey now, his hair still holds its gentle curl and frames his face quite nicely. The beard is new, he realizes, and the lack of a binding ring on any of his fingers does give him a bit of hope. And certainly Eli has spent a fair amount of time with Ar’alani and other hta bicit masters, for the uniform is drawn taunt across his shoulders and allows for a tantalizing view of his physical strength.

_HIs core temperature is lower than that of Ezra and Filia’s… Perhaps his body has adapted to the cold of Chiss starships…_

_“Theliva_ ” Thrawn corrects his thoughts, _“That is his name now._ _Although…”_

“May I make a personal inquiry, Admiral?”

The man perks up a little, now resting his elbows on his knees. “I suppose so. Though, you can drop the honorifics. This isn’t my ship and I’m off-duty now.”

Thrawn nods, taking his words into consideration. “Of course, Theliva. I am curious; you hold a flag rank, and yet you still bear a family name. Such things are entirely unheard of, as those who hold such titles and command are to serve the Ascendancy as a whole, and without family ties. Why is it that you are not named as such?”

Theliva shrugs. _His facial heat increases slightly and he no longer makes eye-contact. An expression of discomfort that is entirely unique to humans…_

“Matriarch Mitth’ilv’onei said it was something about how I’m not technically a citizen of the Ascendancy, so they have to take extra precautions.” Theliva pulls his lower lip between his teeth. A habit of his that implies thought, Thrawn recalls. “I don’t know. No one ever really took the time to explain it to me. Though at this point, I’m starting to think that my rank is just for show.”

 _Interesting_. “If I may, why do you believe that?”

The admiral draws a deep breath through his nose and leans back in the chair. “Like I said, I don’t really know. It just…”

_His eyes lose focus for a brief moment, his expression indicating perhaps sorrow, perhaps regret._

“It’s a feeling, I suppose. Instinct.” There is another small lapse of silence, broken after only a moment when Theliva clears his throat. “All of that aside, Ar’alani told me what you said about Rossi. She’s in custody now, and Ar’alani sent a team to sweep the _Stardust_ for trackers or anything that could lead those bastards here.”

Thrawn nods, though his concern is not at all diminished. “There is nothing the Ascendancy can do to bring her to justice, nor can they launch a true investigation.”

“I know,” Theliva sighs. The exhaustion in his eyes is painfully clear now. But I’ll figure something out. I’m sure Thalias will raise hell when she finds out that someone put Force-sensitives in danger.”

 _Curious_. “Thalias is a Syndic?”

“Not quite.” Theliva makes a face. “It’s a long story, but it’s an entirely new office that deals with Sky-Walkers. Happened about seven years ago?”

Thrawn watches his posture carefully, listening to each change in pitch and tone of his voice with a bittersweet fondness.

 _He carries himself with great confidence and sureness of step, the stance of a man who has walked through fire and survived. There is a word for him,_ _perhaps not in Basic. One that might do him justice._

Thrawn considers the view before him, how Theliva’s sharp profile contrasts with the soft lines of the space they occupy.

_Catahin't tis. Csahn nunatir. Hsisah nirvehe'ch'ah can k'imsi._

Each one is just unique enough to describe each aspect of the visage of the man in front of him, but there is not one that describes him completely, nor does Thrawn believe that there will ever be. And _“beautiful”_ in any language simply does not do justice to the being that is Admiral Mitth’eli’vant.

 _There is no work of art in any form that surpasses the man_ , Thrawn thinks. There is a nagging in his chest, one that simply refuses to leave him alone or allow itself to be ignored. There is so much he wants to say, so many things that merit great apology, so many questions he wishes to ask, but all comprehension of language fails him, ands limbs refuse to move. And so he sits, staring rather dumbly at Mitth’eli’vant like some starstruck fool, with an impossible number of thoughts and scenarios bouncing around his head.

 _And suddenly the weight of the universe is on him, keeping him silent and unmoving. It’s…cold_ …

“Hey, you’re spacin’ out again…” Theliva startles him from his thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

_Basic?_

Theliva’s voice the warmth his body so desperately needs, and Thrawn clings to it like a lifeline.

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t give me that,” he sighs, smiling _almost_ fondly. The expression _hurts_. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re lyin’.”

Thrawn meets Eli’s gaze for a moment, taking the briefest of pauses to find solace in the familiar accent in the man’s speech. Calm washes over him, but not as fully as he would like. “War leaves scars on us all, Theliva. More often than not, the worst are left unseen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn's attempts to describe Eli in Cheunh:
> 
> Catahin't tis - Elegant serenity   
> Csahn nunatir - Regal Nobility/humility (can be interchangeable)   
> Hsisah nirvehe'ch'ah can k'imsi - Grace forged by fire


	14. The Bonded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 - The Bonded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pet names just sound utterly ridiculous when writing the Chiss so my take is that spouses can use their given names (also called second names. Ex: Mitth'ras'safis - Ras, etc.) with each other as a filler for pet names or what us uncultured heathens refer to as "terms of endearment", because Basic is clunky and vague and I hate it immensely. 
> 
> I was going to post yesterday but I got lost in my world-building and passed out before I could finish the chapter. Oops. 
> 
> Also feat. the Chiss not quite grasping how non-chiss names work.

_There are a great many powers in this universe that which we can never truly come to understand. We may know them, may come into contact with them in passing, or we may never experience these unknowns, and thus live our lives in disbelief. A warrior seeks not to understand the inner workings of such things, only how to work with such things. Many societies have come to name their great and unknown powers, to worship them as idols, while others have left it nameless, seeking only to connect with the forces of their natural world. But always, as there often is, a commonality exists between these systems of belief.It is an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the universe together._

_The Chiss, for countless generations, have called it Ozyly._

_Those of the Navigator’s Guild have called it the Great Presence._

_And those of the Lesser Space, since before the dawn of their history, have called it the Force._

The halls of the _Lighthope_ have fallen easily silent, Safrin worries, and the trek from supply to her own quarters remind her all too much of walking through the Valley of Remembrance on Long Night. Beds of ice, one after the other. Some carved more elegantly than others, all silent as the skies. Safrin shivers, trying to keep her mind away from that corner of her memory. Already her fingers are twitching restlessly at her sides and her head snaps to the left sharply enough to startle a passing Lieutenant. Almost curling in on herself, she mumbles a small “sorry” and keeps going. She’s supposed to be meeting with the Admiral soon about the outcome of her first two shifts in supply… Not that there was much to report. Just a few minor tizzies caused in part by the overwhelming lack of color-coordination of the files. Why have a system if it defies all sense? And the cup of pens… She didn’t want to think about that, either.

 _Perhaps a starship is not where I am meant to be_ , she concedes, fighting the urge to simply flop onto her bunk the moment she’s in her quarters. There’s too much else to be done. Reports, practice assessments, reflections on her field op…

Three hours, two half-finished assignments, and a skipped meal pass before an Ensign appears at her door, claiming to have been sent by the bridge about her meeting with Admiral Theliva.

She decides very quickly that she doesn’t like his voice -it makes her twitchy.

“I, uh- Thank you sir.” Safrin dips her head in acknowledgement. “Did he send any other instructions regarding tomorrow’s shift…?”

The ensign shakes his head. His voice isn’t pleasant, but at least his eyes are soft and he has not brought attention to the loud smack of her palm against her cheek. That much makes him tolerable, Safrin thinks. “I’m sorry Cadet, he did not.”

Her gaze falls to the floor, cheek stinging a little. “Alright, thank you again.”

And with that, the hatch hisses shut behind him, leaving Safrin alone once more. Surely, a starship is no place for someone like her.

_And yet…_

Ufsa’fri’nona is _curious_ , and there is little she can do to stomp it out, no matter all that she has tried. She grumbles, pacing. The stifling room is no better than an ice bed -cold and lonely and _yes the walls are properly spaced but they’re far too close together_. _Curious_ , and something is very curiously _wrong_. There is not much short of a full battle that keeps the admiral from his appointments; the man in punctual to the point of being annoying. With a little sigh and a twist of her lip, Safrin glares at the little csotim'ch'ah vutzim toy she tosses between her hands. It makes a rather satisfying _crunch_ when she closes her fingers around it, and the bright yellow does make her smile a little. Even better than the crunch, perhaps, is the sharp _fwap_ when she pulls it taunt and releases it to snap against itself. Or even the sound it makes when it cuts through the air around her wrist and-

 _Now that’s interesting_.

Safrin stares at the manner in which it has gotten itself stuck around her hand, then unwraps it and stares some more. Somewhere, in that little yellow csotim'ch'ah vutzim, something gives her pause. Though, it feels quite impossible to put words to… She twists it against itself once, then twice, then a third time with a little more force before letting it snap back into shape. A violent force, herself, but still it remains…

Safrin’s fingers snap against her will and she flinches at the sound of her palms connecting.

There is a lingering darkness, not only in her surroundings, but across the vessel herself. 

_Perhaps…_

Pocketing the little plasti coil, Safrin squares her shoulders and begins the journey to wherever the feeling takes her. Somewhere, be it in the yellow plasti of a csotim'ch'ah vutzim coil or in the very bowls of the starship, she will find her answers.

In the wake of Ufsa’fri’nona’s hunt is confusion and poorly-concocted excuses for why she -a _cadet_ \- is roaming the ship unsupervised. And no, she learns quickly, throwing around the name of a Rolling Family does absolutely nothing to help her. But it’s not important. The offense behind her is not important. The curses thrown her way? Not important.

The unknown momentum that drags her along by the hand through halls and lifts she’s never seen?

 _That_ matters.

And whatever it is, it has led her to the brig.

Safrin clicks her tongue and smacks the side of her leg, both sounds echoing uncomfortably. Another mumbled “sorry”, and Safrin peaks down at her questis. Some years ago, _someone_ had decided to start a translation system for major trade languages, and _finally_ it came as standard software for personal questises, something that had become increasingly handy. Now, keying it on, Safrin stares at the keyboard and searches for a decent greeting.

 _“Hello_.” A little robotic voice chimes into the chamber. _“Do you speak Sy Bisti?”_

Safrin’s heart thrums against her ribs, fatally anxious, as she stalks between the rows of cells.

_There is absolutely someone here._

But…

_Where?_

Then, a voice in the dim light speaks. It is calculated, precise, and eerie amid the droning of the _Lighthipe_ ’s mechanics, sending a new rush of tension dripping down Safrin’s spine.

 _“_ I speak it.”

~*~

Thrass could easily count on one hand the number of recesses he’d been able to take in his career that had not been promptly interrupted by “unforeseen circumstances” or other political catastrophes, such as a Syndic having a tantrum. It had not been an hour and already he’d been slapped across the face twice with said interruptions.

First, there had been Formbi’s almost-tantrum surrounding the recess itself and laws that _he had -with his own hands- helped write years prior_. The blasphemy of a man is unfortunately talented in the verbal pary and reposte of politics, and thus far he’s made a breathtaking display of hypocrisy by favoring the elitists who would see not only one of the CDF’s most gifted officers kicked out, but a remarkably talented and affective military instructor exiled for _falling in love_. Thrass, when not on the edge of shouting his throat dry, bides his time until the Council of Admirals can convene and make their decision on the issue.

And then there was whatever in the name of hell that transmission form the _Vigilant_ had been about. He didn’t want to believe her, but somewhere, in the deepest corner of his mind, Thrass _did_. Not in any logical sense, not in any sense that could be put into words, but in a manner so painfully specific that there will never be another soul who could even begin to understand. Even in that moment, the little flickering flame of hope that he’d desperately tried to stomp out stood out against all odds.

From its little nest in the center console of the speeder, his questis chirps expectantly. A glance at the ID sequence brings the smallest of smiles to his face and a little bubble of warmth flits around his heart. Eyes not leaving the traffic lane, Thrass keys it on and opens the call on speaker.

“I know,” he says instantly, sighing. “I said I would be home earlier.”

On the other end of the call, a soft laugh echoes in his ears. It’s such a sweet sound, full of fondness and compassion. “I was getting worried, ch’eo. Did something happen?” Mitth’ilv’onei’s voice dips in concern and Thrass can all but _feel_ the worry radiating from her little pout. _The same pout he would gladly kiss right off of her face any day._ He opens his mouth to answer, but Thilvon gets there first. “Wait, let me guess. Was Chaf’orm’bintrano involved?”

Thrass laughs dryly. “Isn’t he always?”

“And he was being a prick?”

“Oh, my love that is a heinous understatement,” the patriarch huffs out, nearly missing his turn. He’s silent for a moment, as is Thilvon, and he knows she’s waiting for him to keep talking. There’s little -if any- sense in trying to hide anything from the woman. “He’s a vile man, Thilvon. How can anyone look another person dead in the eyes and threaten _exile_ over love?” Thrass’s grip on the wheel tightens almost painfully. “How can they _all_ sit there and accuse Ar’alani of -and this is a direct quote- _“sullying our military and society”_ when all she did was marry that lovely woman?”

The sigh that crackles through the speaker is as heavy and tired as Thrass feels, and there’s no doubt that Thilvon’s eyes are dim and her posture saddened. There are still days he believes with his entire being that the woman is some sort of ethereal or cosmic deity. He’d even asked her once if she had been born or if a star had fallen from the heavens and _pop_! Out she came from the snow. Thilvon had laughed quite dearly at that, all while firmly denying it and claiming that her mother would never let her hear the end of how much of a pain she had been to deliver.

 _Goddesses,_ Thrass would do anything for that smile.

“In a perfect world, I would tell you to ignore them,” Thilvon says in turn. “But there can be no such thing while _people_ like them remain in power.”

“While _anyone_ remains in power, Ilv,” Thrass grinds out darkly.

The breath she lets out in one of schooled patience, passed through barely parted lips that are _absolutely_ painted red. Being stuck on a cot in one’s office for a week does very little to erase three and a half decades of hopeless pining and committing a face to memory. And besides, Thilvon has never _not_ worn red lip paint.

“I know, ch’eo.” Thrass imagines the soft roll of her wrists and curl of her fingers just as she folds her hands in her lap, “Rab, ch'a vur bah ch'itihn csarcican't nah visco rin'hi, Ras.” There is a moment of silence that Thrass knows exists to allow the words to sink in, and an extra breath’s pause for good measure. Then, “Are you almost home?”

To no one in particular, Thrass shakes his head. “Almost.” He peaks at the traffic lane signs. “I’m at 8th and Main.”

Thilvon makes a little humming noise. “Do you mind stopping at the market on Vesper and Cspilo and picking up milk? It’s the one thing I forgot when I was out this morning.” There’s a hint of embarrassment behind the words -Matriarchs do not often forget to buy milk, or anything else for that matter.

Thrass smiles, and this time it’s genuine. “It would be my pleasure.”

Thilvon is haunting the kitchens when he finally shuts the door behind him, already counting the days until they can return to the Homestead. With her back turned -and an absolutely _bewitching_ alto aria tearing from her throat- Thrass takes the opportunity to sneak up to her as best as he can, a bundle of bright orange flowers hidden behind his back and hoping desperately that the crinkle of the pae’pir wrapping won’t blow his cover. For a moment, he pauses just outside the kitchens, lost in the fish amber of her voice.

But, ever the keen ear, Thilvon stops mid-breath and turns, letting go of the remainder of the breath with a smile. Her eyes flick along his body for the briefest of seconds, no doubt taking inventory of the wrinkles in his robes from being stored in a duffle for so long and now mostly-undone knot he’d pulled his hair into that morning.

 _It had been a week_.

Thilvon’s smile widens, lips parting at the corners and revealing a sharp tooth. “Perhaps I should inform the Council that you’ve taken ill and will need further recess,” she says, “You look like a wampa’s high-moon snack.”

There’s decidedly little Thrass can do to hide his own grin. She’s not wrong, and it’s certainly an accurate assessment of how he _feels_. With a quiet huff, he abandons the flowers and market bag on the kitchen counter and pulls Thilvon into a long, tired hug, tucking his nose against the crook of her neck.

_He’s missed this._

“What troubles you, ch’eo?” Thilvon asks softly. Her fingertips trace languid patterns along his shoulders and spine, threatening to send him to sleep right then and there. “There has been more to this fight than you have already told me, isn’t there?”

“Mind reader,” Thrass grumbles into her collar. Her fingers trail up his neck and into his hair, drawing a rather undignified purr from his chest. “Ar’alani and Theliva sent a report to my office, it arrived as I was leaving.” He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as Thilvon’s nails shape lightly against his scalp. _He’ll have to return the favor after dinner._ “They found- they-“

Thilvon gives his waist a gentle squeeze. “Was it the _Chimaera_?”

He shakes his head a little. “In a sense, yes. The ship supposedly came out of nowhere, Theliva was the first to contact the crew, it-“

“Take your time, ch’eo.”

“Ilv, they _found_ him.”

~*~

Thunhe never thought she’d see the day when she would have to throw out her _admiral’s daughter_ card, but here she was, burbling infant in her arms and scowl etched into her face as she glares down the guards assigned to the detention level and on the verge of yelling.

Unfortunately, they just look _bored_.

 _So much for that plan_ , she thinks bitterly.

She’s about to open her mouth again to retort when a firm hand comes to rest on her shoulder and the guards stiffen.

“I do hope you have a good reason for preventing my medic from updating the father of this child on his status?” Ar’alani asks evenly. The ice in her voice sends a shiver down Thunhe’s spine, and she tries not to think about what the woman might sound like when she’s truly angry. “Otherwise, I’m _sure_ you’d be quite happy to explain to the man why he’s not being contacted about his child.”

Their eyes widen slightly, Thunhe notices, and their bodies tense for a moment before they step aside. The one on the right mumbles a hasty apology, but says nothing else. Probably a good idea, to be honest.

Once the hatch has shut behind them, Ar’alani’s hand tightens on her shoulder. “And I trust you have good reason to even be here? I do not remember ordering you to keep our guest updated.”

The petite medic turns to her, brows raised in challenge. “No Auntie, but you _did_ clearly express that the child’s care was up to my discretion, and I have a few questions about the poor little thing’s diet.” Then, under her breath she adds, “Among other things.”

Ar’alani sighs, bearing the expression of a woman who has put up with the melodramatics of the Mitth family for decades and been entirely done with it for most of that time. “Go on then. You know the rules of exchange.”

Again Thunhe lifts a brow and forces away the smirk that threatens to form. She knew them, yes… _in theory_. “Yes, Auntie. I do.”

 _It is not until after she’s gone that Thunhe considers just how warm the Admiral’s hand had been, even through the many layers of the medic’s uniform. Her own expression falters, rapidly evolving from confusion to contemplation to concern. From everything she’d heard, the woman did not have a spectacular immune system, and Partial Thonin_ had _mentioned that her aide had taken ill…_

Thunhe shakes her head at no one in particular, then smiles down at the infan- _Grogu_. She’s not sure what his name could _possibly_ be to result in such an awkward core name, but it’s certainly a mix _she_ would have avoided if she’d been the one to name the child. Goddesses, she can’t even think of a _family_ name that ends in that syllable. Thunhe had seen Ruog, Ogu, Ouge, and a few other variants as second names, and even Guin, Guacsa, and the like as third names, but unless his family was so obscure that it wasn’t in any publicly known records… it makes her head hurt to think about.

She comes to a halt in front of the Shiny One’s cell to find that he is no longer shiny, but rather sitting cross-legged in the middle of a pile of armor. He must be bored, Thunhe thinks sadly.

A realization hits her very suddenly.

Thunhe can _barely_ speak any trade languages at a passable level, and it would be utterly impossible that the Shiny One speaks Cheunh… Communicating is going to be difficult.

Sy Bisti is probably her best option. After all, it was the only one that was commonly spoken in Lesser Space _and_ the Chaos. Maybe he’d speak that?

“ _Do you speak Sy Bisti?_ ” Thunhe asks in the language.

Shiny One looks up then, helmet tipped to the side in question. _“I do_. _Why_?”

Thunhe shrugs and plunks herself gracelessly onto the floor on the other side of the cell’s transperi. “I thought you might want to visit with you son. He has told me many stories of his life. I did not expect that he has lived for so long and yet is so young.”

“He-“

_His pulse quickens, and his voice is unsteady. This is how you know a human is anxious, or even confused._

“He _talked_ to you?”

_There is no small amount of bewilderment and disbelief in his voice, perhaps even disappointment._

Thunhe mimics his confused posture. Had Grogu _not_ communicated with his father? “In a way, yes. I suppose so. He has the Second Sight, as I do. I admit it isn’t common among my people, but we do know of many species who are Gifted with the Sights.”

Shiny One appears even more confused now, and has set aside his polishing rag. “The _Sights_? I’ve never heard of it.”

She huffs, pursing her lips. The word in Sy Bisti eludes her, and speaking Cheunh will get here nowhere. “When you see” -Thunhe presses her middle and index fingers of both hands to the corners of her eyes, then to her temples- “with your mind.” She taps twice at the space between her eyes before making a sweeping gesture away from her head on both sides. “The _Sights_.” Singing it probably isn’t going to do anything, Thunhe muses sourly, but some visuals are certainly universal.

Right?

The Shiny One only grows more confused, if his hunched posture is any indicator. Humans, Thunhe knows, are very difficult to read and understand. “You can see his mind?”

“Yes!” She exclaims, making the sign again, “Or sometimes hear them.”

At this, Shiny One scoots himself closer to the transperi barrier and presses his palm flat against the surface, and the child reaches for the hand. Thunhe’s heart twists in on itself at the sight. “What has he been saying?” His voice is lower, she realizes, likely to keep it from cracking any more.

She smiles, though none of the sadness leaves her. “That you have shown him great kindness, and what his life was like before you rescued him. I do not know what the images mean, but they are warm and feel like hope and safety. Many of them take place in a great city, at a temple, of sorts. But in all of those memories, Grogu seems happy, as he does now.”

When Thunhe looks up from their hands, she’s looking into Shiny One’s helmet. “Grogu?”

_The child perks up, looking between them with great interest._

“That is his name,” Thunhe supplies, perplexed. “I believe that when I spoke it not an hour past, it was the first time he had been called as such in a great number of years. There is a long stretch of time in his memory that is dark…cold…” she shivers, the memory of that abyss crashing over her again. “He survived a great massacre, I think. I wish I could tell you more, but I do not know of your worlds.”

“That’s okay.”

_His voice is increasingly unstable. Perhaps he feels many things, all of them at once overwhelming._

“I… Thank you. I appreciate everything you’re doing for him,” Shiny One says quietly. “For Grogu.”

She bows her head politely. “Mitth’raw’nuruodo told you on my behalf that Chiss are very protective of children. They are the future, our legacies, their own legacies. It is our task to protect and nurture them until our dying breaths and leave behind for them a world where they can thrive.” Thunhe shrugs. “Watching over him until he is placed back in your care is the least I can do.”

Shiny One falls silent for a moment, and she assumes it’s to regain control over his voice. Though, humans are funky little creatures who emote far more than most Chiss, or at least, in much different manners, and so far this one isn’t unlike her own father in that respect. “I don’t know your name.”

“Interim Medical Officer Mitth’un’hee, of House Mitth,” she beams proudly. “Although, you may call me “Thunhe”. Chiss names seem to be difficult for humans.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mitth’un’hee.” Shiny One sounds rather proud of himself, Thunhe notes. And rightfully so. His pronunciation is…alarmingly accurate. For a human.

“What may I call you?” She cocks her head to the side a little. “I do not think that calling you by your species is respectful.”

 _His posture holds hesitance, perhaps reclusiveness._ “Din. You can call me Din.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch'a vur bah ch'itihn csarcican't nah visco rin'hi - "A hateful heart does not warm blood." Chiss proverb that I pulled out of the ass-end of nowhere.  
> Csotim'ch'ah vutzim - slinky  
> https://youtu.be/6CfRJSKk2Ls - In my little gremlin brain, this is what Thilvon was singing to herself


	15. The Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14 - The Prisoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this last night and then had a *revelation* this evening while I was at work (bless my poor sergent for having to deal with me rambling while on patrol) so I took it down the second we got back and here's the update

_When one conspires to commit a crime, it is assumed that one is not only aware of the consequences of conspiracy, but that one is perhaps foolish enough to hope that their plan will nevertheless succeed in their favor. Whether or not their plan succeeds is rarely by skill alone, though many will boast to the contrary. Rather, success may often be as simple as existing in the correct place at the correct time -a feat largely owed to luck or coincidence. A single miscalculation made by authorities may result in the success of the conspirator. In contrast, a single miscalculation on the end of the conspirator will doubtlessly lead to their downfall._

_This understanding of chance does little to unravel the mysteries of the conspirator’s mind. What has driven them to this point? Where do they believe it will lead them? Are they acting of free will? Or is there a more sinister hand forcing their own...?_

She’d managed to sneak in the time to take the holochat from Csilla, updating her on her wife’s status (unresolved, though it appears that their Patriarch has been called in to defend her) and the poor woman had made a rather unhealthy-sounding squeaking noise when she realized that Ar’alani had shed her pristine white in favor of straight up combat gear. Despite the situation, Ar’alani couldn’t help but smile.

“Just a bit of business,” she’d explains smoothly. “Life does tend to be a bit unpredictable, after all.”

Zikarynfa laughs a little, though there is a little humor behind her eyes. “Oh, I know. We’ve both served long enough to know that one by heart.” Her eyes roam across the armored uniform once more, either assessing its ability to protect a body or its flattery of the same. Or both. Ar’alani could settle for both. She really does wish she could reach through the holo and hold her face... It’s been too long, the Admiral thinks sourly. Too long and she’s too tired to deal with another week away.  
Zikarynfa’s voice is small when she speaks again, something Ar’alani has come to know as hidden or sheltered fear. “When will you be home?”

A pang of guilt stabs at her lungs. She was already supposed to be home -Theliva’s little incident had been an unforeseen complication. “Soon, ch’eo. I promise.”

Instead of pushing it, as Ar’alani worries, Zikarynfa pulls her lower lip between her teeth. “So what business has you in a combat uniform?”

Ar’alani’s face darkens, mouth setting into a deep scowl. “I can say little, under law. But I am to deal with a prisoner who has put a child in danger.”

Under normal circumstances, Ar’alani would have sent a pair of marines with a _professional_ interrogator to deal with her _guest_. But the woman perched on the cell’s cot, eyes empty and face blank, is not a normal circumstance.

“I trust you are comfortable, Ren'musen'i?”

The human _seethes_ , her core temperature all but a torch in Ar’alani’s vision.  
“Who are you?”

Ar’alani’s forces her face to remain neutral. “I am Sovereign Admiral Ar’alani of the Chiss Defense Force. I command this vessel. And _you_ ,” there’s a small flare of theatrics as she makes pointed eye contact with the human. “-are Decommissioned Commodore Filia Rossi. Former captain of the Imperial Cruiser _Blood Crow_ , as well as the Freighter _Engame._ ” She glances down at her questis. “Spent a bit of time in an orbital station, as well, I see.”

The woman says nothing, her glare burning into Ar’alani’s forehead.

“I’ll take your silence as affirmative, then.” The Admiral sighs, drags the chair from the other side of the cell, and flips it around before straddling it. “So, _Ren'musen'i_ Rossi, I would like to engage in conversation with you.”

Rossi eyes her warily and reclines against the wall, legs and arms crossed defensively.

_Her posture suggests defense, perhaps defiance. The incline of her chin and brow suggest a lack of cooperation, and there is a chance she will lie quite thoroughly to any end._

“Fine, _Sovereign_ ,” Rossi quips. “What sort of conversation?”

The dangerous lift at the end of her title almost makes Ar’alani flinch. _Rarely_ is her full title used, especially in this sort of setting. “I have questions about your journey, Ren’musen’i. My people have never known yours to venture and arrive safely into this part of the universe. And I readily admit my curiosity.”

“We had a navigator,” Rossi says flatly.

Ar’alani’s face falls into a resting frown. “I see. Would you clarify further?”

“I will not.”

Sovereign Admiral Ar’alani is not, _under any conditions_ , a violent woman. In fact, it’s one of her greatest sources of personal pride. Hells, she doesn’t even _raise her voice_ unless she needs to be heard over a crowd or storm.

But this woman...

Goddesses help her, Ar’alani isn’t sure how much longer she can settle for simply sitting across her and it’s not even been _five minutes._

“Perhaps.” She concedes, nodding eloquently. “But if you do not wish to speak on how you came to be here, perhaps we can speak on another subject.“ The admiral leans away from the back of the chair and folds her hands in her lap politely. It’s all she can do to keep from lashing out.

 _Rossi’s breath is unwavering, and her pulse remains even. No doubt she has undergone resistance conditioning_.

Such training, of course, is standard when a military has any sense.

And Rossi appears to be particularly good at it, for as infuriatingly smug as she is.

“What subject might that be, Sovereign Admiral?” Rossi says innocently. The sound is like gritpaper against Ar’alani’s ears.

Ar’alani stands then, bristling with irritation, and plucks her questis from its hook at the back of her belt. She keys it on, making a show of the entire thing. Theatrics were never a formal part of her training, but the more quietly intimidating she could be, the better. That much, at least, she’d picked up from Mitth’ras’safis after years of trailing him around from courtroom to courtroom to defend his irritatingly clever little brother. Perhaps she owed him a “thank you” card.

“Tell me, Ren’musen’i, what do you make of this?” Ar’arlani flicks two fingers along the screen and the hologram of a coded (and decoded) message springs to life. She looks at Rossi for a moment, studying her reaction before reading the message aloud. “Position Report, Decommissioned _Gozanti_ -class cuiser _Stardust_ hailing _Arquitens_ -class command cruiser _Endgame_. Entering Grid K-5, vector .85 SSE inbound. Heading to be corrected negative 0.045 by 1-113. Estimated to arrive in Sector 7G in one standard week. Course corrections will further vary.” She looks past the holo to the human, expression blank. “Quite the interesting report, Ren’musen’i Rossi. And as I understand the situation-“ Ar’alani keys off the questis and returns it to its place on her belt before crouching to level herself with the human. “-your sending of this message is an effective death sentence to the crew you traveled with, and now-“ she gestures widely with open palms, “-you have become a threat to my people.”

The human expression of “smugness” is not at all dissimilar to that of the Chiss, Ar’alani knows. And she’s known countless politicians, children, _and_ Mitth’eli’vant long enough to pick out the expression in both. The upwards draw of _this_ human’s brows atop an otherwise empty face indicate such smugness.

“The Empire could not care less about whatever scraps of civilization exists _here_ ,” Rossi scoffs, tucking cuffed wrists behind her neck. “We take what we want, and there will be no discussion.”

_Her voice is rancid with venom and self-assurance, the tone of a woman who has taken blind faith in the powers that may be._

“I see.” Ar’alani rises to her full height, now looming over the still-seated woman. “But should your _Empire_ decide to pursue your instruction, understand that your life will be seen as forfeit, as you are now an accomplice in an act of war.” The corner of Ar’alani’s lips tick upwards in an amused smile. “A war, Ren’musen’i, that will be lost if declared.”

Rossi _sneers,_ a small twitch developing at her left eye. “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Sovereign. Your feeble threats are no match for the destructive power of the Empire!”

Ar’alani cannot swallow her laughter in time. It is a cold, cruel sound that has been known to frighten even the bravest of warriors, should they find themselves on the wrong end. “Then you are ignorant of your own history.” She lowers herself again, this time nose-to-nose with Rossi and grips her chin firmly, the woman twitching in discomfort beneath her. Ar’alani is careful to enunciate each letter in each syllable, pouring into them every bit of spite and malice she can summon.

“You. Will. _Loose_.”

_~*~_

Theliva worries his lip between his teeth, chin resting on his fist. Before him, across various holos, are live video feeds from Filia Rossi’s cell. Of all the people Theliva hoped he’d never see again, the petty woman was near the top of that list. So far she hasn’t shown a single sign of cracking. An alarming development, as he was almost sure the sight of a two and a half meter tall woman in full armor would scare the daylights out of anyone with a single shred of self-preservation. And for a long while, as Ar’alani stares her down, Theliva’s own nerves begin to buzz uncomfortably. He’d seen interrogations take _months_ within the Ascendancy. With extremely tight nonviolence regulations, Chiss investigators are forced to use mind games and carefully worded questions to extract information. Unfortunately, Ar’alani’s Basic isn’t _that_ good -she might be able to form one of those questions, but the reply is more than likely to fly right over her head.

Raw’nuruodo had happily turned over the _Stardust_ to the team of forensic slicers Ar’alani had sent for, who found the encrypted and coded transmissions within an hour -something that had both impressed and terrified Theliva. The slicers didn’t look to be nay older than Thunhe -maybe younger. Now, they stand side by side once more, a familiar -albeit somewhat tense- flow of energy between them.

“You are concerned.” It is a statement, not a question. The rich timbre is unchanged with time, though Theliva notices it is almost _lighter_ in the air than he has ever heard it. He does remember a conversation they’d once had about _the “itchiness”_ of the recycled air aboard Imperial cruisers… Though Theliva can’t remember if “itchy” was the exact word, nor what the rest of the context of the conversation had been.

“A bit,” Theliva concedes. He’s long since given up trying to hide anything from the Chiss, swearing up and down that they’re all mind-readers to some degree (a claim repeatedly cast aside as paranoia by a certain Patriarch). “We’re a bit out of date with Imperial activity and technology out here -once we heard about Endor, High Command cut down on that research project.” He pauses for a moment as Ar’alani stalks closer to Rossi, the look in her eyes almost predatory. _Feral_ even, if he could get away with calling a Sovereign Admiral _“feral_ ”. Theliva clears his throat before speaking again, this time directly addressing Raw’nuruodo. “The reports and technical information you surrendered and what was left aboard that old heap of junk will be a good starting point to pick the project back up, though. Thank you.”

Raw’nuruodo simply nods once, eyes not leaving the video feeds. “When was such a title created, Admiral?”

Theliva blinks at him. “You mean Ar’alani?”

“Yes,” he says slowly, “When last I recall, the highest ranks achievable were “Supreme General” and “High Admiral”. Addressing Ar’alani as “Sovereign Admiral” is entirely new to me.”

“She was promoted maybe…” Theliva gnaws the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “…Eight years ago? Seven? Right after the Colonial Uprisings, the Council of Admirals sat down with the Heads of Families and the Syndicure and worked out a few new additions to the systems.” His face twists a little, still at least partially focused on the video feeds. “There’s only one _Sovereign_ Admiral,” he explains. “Their job is to act as supreme commander of the entire CDF, and as a political figure on behalf of the same.”

“Fascinating…” Raw’nuruodo says under his breath. “And what of these “Colonial Uprisings”? Did the Ascendancy experience a civil war?”

Theliva shrugs, shaking his hand in midair. “Yes and no? It was all politics. I’m sure there were a few broken chairs and bloody noses in parliament and such. House Clarr was knocked out of Ruling status and Kivu made an impressive stand. They replaced Clarr within two years.”

Raw’nuruodo turns to him then, looking almost hopeful. “Now may not be the most opportune time for you to educate me on all that I have missed, Admiral. Would it be overstepping the boundaries of my arrest to ask to see you later?”

_Ar’alani releases Rossi’s jaw with a sharp jerk, only to grab her by the neck -not tight enough to cause any damage, however- and lifts her away from the cot before slamming her into the chair._

“I suppose not,” Theliva sighs. “Besides, I’m sure Thunhe would love to see you again.”

_The Sovereign straddles Rossi, and Theliva almost feels a pang of pity for the human. Rossi is in no way petite, but Ar’alani is well over two meters tall and is built like -to use a colloquialism of his homeworld- built like a brick shithouse. It can’t be comfortable._

“So she was adopted into the Mitth, then,” Raw’nuruodo concludes, a soft hint of pride behind his voice.

Theliva nods, a smile creeping up onto his face. “Legally, she’s my daughter.”

_Ar’alani keep Rossi pinned in place, entirely unable to move. She keeps a firm hand around the human’s throat, the tension in her own jaw and face indicating a raised voice._

“I am sure you are a very good father to her.”

“Yeah…” Theliva sighs.

 _The back of Ar’alani’s gloved hand connects with Rossi’s cheek with a sharp_ ** _slap_**. Theliva winces.

“I do the best I can.” He keys on the sound on, curious.

_Rossi’s head tips back in a roar of near-manacle laughter. “If you’re so concerned about what’s going on in the rest of the galaxy, why don’t you ask the Grand Admiral’s husband,” she spits out, grinning. “I understand His Majesty’s Empire has been trailing him for quite some time.”_

Beside him, Raw’nuruodo stiffens. An interesting throw of information, but what exactly had happened since he’d last seen Thrawn?

 _Ar’alani snarls, fingers tightening around the human’s throat. “Right now, I am not asking Raw’nuruodo or his husband, I am asking_ you _.”_

“What’s she talking about?” Theliva casts an uneasy glance at the other Chiss. “The Mandalorian? _Him_?”

“Djarin’s child seems to be of great concern to those who remain,” he says quietly, _thoughtfully_. “I assume the child has the Sights, though I am not entirely sure what little remains of the Empire could possibly want with wither of them.”

Theliva frowns deeply. “”What little remains”? What’s all that about?”

“A story best answered by the Mandalorian Djarin. I was…” Raw’nuruodo hesitates. “…not privy to the situation like he was.”

“And he never said anything after you two…?” He leaves the remainder of the question up to interpretation, unsure if he can stomach finishing it hemself.

Raw’nuruodo, however, simply inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I did not ask. It seemed impolite to pursue the subject when it clearly caused great distress tp speak of. Though, I would venture to assume that now _would_ be an opportune time to bring it up again.”

“I’ll look into it once Ar’alani’s finished with…whatever it is she’s doing.”

~*~

Night shifts aboard any human-operated base or ship is always silent as a memorial garden, save for the chittering of mouse droids and the occasional echoes of the night-patrol’s whispered conversation. Anto Fort was never intended to be a continuous-cycle base, and such this is how every night plays out.

Most officers live and thrive in the day shifts, awake enough to function after a cup of caf and a splash of cold water to the face. Fewer are blessed with the ability to excel only when the sun is a distant memory. These sleepless elite are rarely given day-duty, and when they are, they’ve been known to complain for the duration.

Loralai considers herself _neither_ ; able to perform to expectations and beyond during the day, but often restless enough to work an entire shift long into the night. Those nights (which are sadly frequent and have earned her regular scoldings from medics and doctors) see her in the complex’s training center, more often than not beating the ever-loving Force out of some poor practice dummy or off-suit storm trooper. A few of them have made a point of avoiding being in the dojo when she is, something Loralai takes a small degree of pride in.

Tonight, it seems, is one of those nights, and she’s already blown through three troopers and a rookie TIE pilot who really had no idea what end of a sparring dummy was up. _Surely_ there was something that could help her get her frustrations out _safely_ and without too much property damage.

Loralai plants a solid kick to the assassin droid’s chest, sending it stumbling across the mat. 

_Every lead was a dead end._

The droid lunges and the Commander slips just out of reach.

_Their last trail had gone cold that morning._

Loralai swings the staff over her head with a guttural growl, cracking the droid upside the head. It’s disoriented long enough for her to kick it aside again before it can retaliate.

 _An unmanned probing shuttle had been sent along the last known trajectory outlined by their source, only to be shot out of the sky over Esfandia. The second attempt hadn’t even made it to Yaga Minor_. _The third was obliterated by a New Republic patrol near Zaadja._

In a blink, the droid recovers and aims to throw a metal fist at Loralai’s face. She miscalculates at the last second, resorting to throwing a barely-protected arm up to shield her face. Another mistake. Now curled in on herself and unbalanced, the droid kicks at her shins and sends her to the mat, hissing in pain.

_They’re out of time._

“Shutdown override, command code _ch’usci_. _”_

The voice is not Loralai’s, nor does it belong to any nearby troopers, and the woman looks up from the mat. Her vision despite being sideways, is slowly filled with impeccably polished black boots striding towards the mat. Loralai rolls onto her back, gasping for breath as sweat runs down her neck and spine and every uncomfortable place possible. When she finally opens her eyes again, Yissa is looming over her, bare hand pressed to her forehead, then her neck.

“And to think you yell at me for pushing myself too far…” She shakes her head, offering her un-bandaged hand to Loralai. “Did you break anything?”

The commander takes the offered hand and pushes herself upright as a bottle of water is shoved at her. “Don’t think so.”

Yissa huffs, disbelief painted across her face. “Chug that, then get your sweaty ass back to bed. I thought you had planned to be off Yalara by sunrise?”

“Never said I was going to be waking up for it,” she grumbles into the water bottle. “Kinda planed on an all-nighter if needed.”

“Well,” Hammerly plunks herself unceremoniously onto the mat beside the commander, legs splayed out like a child’s doll. “That is absolutely not going to happen. I need you awake and alert for this and I absolutely do _not_ need you passing out at the yoke.”

“But we have-“

“-Caf is not an acceptable “out”, Commander Ainija.”

“But-!”

“ _No.”_


	16. The Remnant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The Remnant

_A great showman creates lies. A good showman recognizes the usefulness and illusion within the lies presented to them. A fair showman must see the logic in the lie and be given proof of its sureness, lest they lose faith in the lie, before offering approval._

_Those who lack the skill and ability of a showman or liar may never understand or accept the show that has been put on before them as anything other than the absolute truth. Such people will thus praise and idolize the showman. To those without the ability, those who possess it are a mystery._

_And when a mind is too deficient in understanding, the resulting gap -where there is not praise- may indeed be filled with resentment._

The bridge of the star destroyer smells of disinfectants and some realm of air freshener that shipyards always seem to feel is necessary in their newest vessels. Ainija assumes it’s little more than a show put on by the maintenance and janitorial crews prior to presenting a freshly minted Fleet Admiral Yissa Hammerly with the ship. That morning, Ainija had been somewhat confused when the woman hadn’t dressed in her full uniform prior to their final conference with the Moff. A confusion swiftly resolved when the lingering stormtrooper presented Yissa with a neatly folded and blindingly pristine white uniform. It suited her very, _very_ well -in Loralai’s humble opinion, of course.

And when she strode down the command bridge with the cape flowing elegantly behind her…

Well, Loaralai kept _those_ thoughts to herself.

Hammerly stands with rod-straight posture, hands folded at the base of her spine. “Full status report, all stations.”

One by one, Ensigns and Lieutenants peak their capped heads up over the command bridge and chant off their affirmations that, yes, their stations are all functioning within normal parameters, and are ready for deployment. From her place at Hammerly’s side, the corner of Ainija’s lips tick upwards with pride. This would not be her or the Fleet Admiral’s first command, but it would be their first _together_. A protege of Grand Admiral Thrawn and a former hand of Grand Moff Tarkin during the height of the Empire; they would be unstoppable.

Especially now, with a fully operational, top-of-the-line _Resurgent-_ class destroyer under their control. The Admiral christened her _Insidious_ , and the name had come so quickly from her lips that Ainija wondered for a moment just how long Hammerly had been preparing for such a promotion.

Hammerly inclines her head aft, vaguely in the direction of the helm’s crew-pit. “Senior Lieutenant Emica, set course for the Zaadja system. Best speed, if you would.”

“Aye, Admiral,” Emica nods with a wink. “Course set, ready to engage on your command.”

“Engage, Lieutenant.”

Ainija watches with perpetual wonder as stars and planets fade into brilliant swirls of light around the _Insidious_. The myriad of color splashes across the dim grey duristeel of the Bridge, bringing the vessel into a life beyond the bustle of crew members and droids. In the corner of her vision, Hammerly’s shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. She is calm here, Ainija thinks. In her element. After weeks of chasing her tail and cold trails, she’d been wound up tighter than a canon spring coil. And she’d almost snapped, Ainija recalls with an internalized grimace. So when her own time blowing off steam had been interrupted with news of their imminent deployment, she’d been a bit surprised.

A _junior_ analyst, of all those assigned to their investigation, had been the one to crack open the transmission and shake it for everything it was worth, and had even gone so far as to chat _three theoretical courses_ that would align their ships with their source’s trajectory without being put in danger. Though in hindsight, Ainija thinks, the concept really _wasn’t_ that complex. The analyst’s courses kept them skirting along the edge of Wild Space and the Unknown Regions, far out of reach of the New Republic. A joke, really, but also a very real threat if they miscalculated…

Ainija isn’t sure how much time has passed when Hammerly finally moves for the first time since the jump. “Walk with me, Commodore.”

 _Commodore._ Ainija has no idea when she’ll be used to the title, but she does like the way it rolls off the admiral’s tongue. It fans her ego a bit, making her all warm and fuzzy in some deep, unattended corner of her heart.

She nods, turning about and falling in step with Hammerly. “Fleet Admiral during the maiden voyage of the first of a new generation of vessels,” Ainija says, wonder and disbelief both lacing her words. “That’s quite a mark on your record, Admiral.”

Hammerly lets out a chuckle through her nose. “I trust you will not be far behind in that sense. Your own promotion was both long overdue and well-earned. I can’t understand why you weren’t at least commentated after your victory at Cyphar.”

“Cyphar was hardly _my_ victory, Sir,” Ainija says. Her face twists in thought. “Not entirely.” A pause, then, “What do you expect to find on the other side of Nightshrike’s trajectory?”

“With any luck at all, Onaka was telling the truth about his associates,” Hammerly sighs. “And given the path said trajectory leads to, we can only assume that it will put us at Ilum, and from there, a likely-uncontacted civilization.”

“Where does Onaka come into this?” Ainija asks, looking a bit lost. “You ordered his termination, citing his -and I quote- “utter uselessness”. Why is he important _now_?”

The Admiral only shrugs lightly. “He _claimed_ to have associated with MIA Grand Admiral Thrawn, whose species is native to the Unknown Regions.”

“And we’re to believe -or assume- that Admiral Thrawn is in league with the Asset.” Ainija concludes sourly. “I’m not sure I trust that.”

“It’s not your job to trust it, Commodore,” Hammerly says, almost harshly. “It is your job to follow orders just like any other soldier.” 

Ainija presses her lips into a thin line. Even with the weight of failure slowly lifting from their shoulders, the Admiral still has yet to lose her sharpness of tongue. Now more than ever, she thinks. Maybe the new rank was going to Yissa’s head.

“I understand, Sir.” Ainija says stiffly, “But as your first officer, is it not within the scope of my duties to know at least your _intentions_?” She’s not paying a lick of attention to anything in her surroundings except the aura of forced authority about the Admiral, who -for a woman just gifted command- does not look thrilled to be breathing in that particular moment. Hammerly’s face suddenly twitches, perhaps with poorly-contained irritation. Ainija lifts a cautious brow. “Forgive me, I did not intend to-!”

In a blink, Hammerly’s eyes squeeze shut and her head jerks to the side, nose buried in her elbow in an almighty sneeze.

Ainija barely swallows her laughter in time to avoid the Admiral’s scrutiny. “It’s all the disinfectants, isn’t it Yissa?” _Is she even allowed to call her that anymore?_

Hammerly glares ahead, bearing the expression of a noblewoman caught in scandal, eyes wide and flicking about just to make sure _no one saw that thank you very much_.

“Possibly,” she says sourly. “They’re probably still using that blasted sodium hypochlorite-based cleaner...”

“Allergic?”

Hammerly nods grimly. “A bit. This is the first time I’ve been assigned to anything fresh off the line.” She scrunches her nose and blocks rapidly a few times before relaxing. “I should be fine.”

“I’m sure you could procure a respiration from the medicenter,” Ainija supplies. “Just in case.”

“Perhaps that is our current destination, Commodore.”

Ainija squints a little at the surrounding halls. Everything looks _vaguely_ similar on all sides, with too few landmarks to indicate their location. Though, unless she’s completely lost her ability to count, they can’t be far from the bridge. Beside her, Hammerly chuckles and nods up to the juncture between walls and floor. The commodore follows her gaze, eyes widening a little in understanding.

“Well I’ll be dammed.”

“I suppose there were one too many complaints in previous models.” Hammerly’s lips tick up at the corners. “Subtle, but effective.”

Running along each wall, just at the top, are narrow tickingtape holos and arrows pointing to important landmarks and stations. Some of them even appear to be color-coded. Ainija watches them a moment longer, until a run of green text sends a jolt of discomfort dripping down her spine.

“If it’s not too forward of me, Admiral, how do you expect us to survive the journey through the Unknown Regions?” Ainija asks with a grim frown. “Nightshrike’s last transmission even said that they’d be unable to record further jumps and navigational redirections- we can’t trace that, not even with the best systems in place.”

Hammerly’s eyes narrow. “You doubt our resources?”

“I doubt the skill of our pilots.” Ainija quips. “Training, practical or otherwise, and any time in service is lined on all sides with predetermined hyperspace lanes and tried and true starcharts. They are not used to functioning with so many unknown variables.”

Without warning, the Admiral stops, cape swishing around her thighs with an oddly dangerous aura. Then, before Ainija can even blink, her back hits the solid wall of a nearby alcove with bone-shattering force. Her head must’ve made contact as well -spots flicker in her vision and there’s a numb tingling in her arms. Ainija lets out an involuntary huff at the contact and steels her face.

“Intrusion did not earn you this promotion and station, _Commodore_ ,” Hammerly growls. On wither side of her head, Hammerly’s hands are planted firmly, successfully trapping her subordinate. “The _Insidious_ is under _my_ command, as is this operation. Not yours.”

A deep part of Ainija’s mind wants to laugh in her face, but if there’s one surefire way to death, it’s that. “You’re fragile, _Fleet Admiral_ ,” Ainija hisses. “Moff Gideon’s death threat looms over all of us, you aren’t special in that fact.”

A snarl tears through Hammerly’s chest and through her teeth and she shoves Ainija harder against the wall. “How _dare_ you speak like that!”

“You seemed to like it last night.”

Ainija grunts when the other woman’s arm pushes into her chest. “Go on, Admiral. _Try it_. See how much the Grand Admiral favors you when she finds out about this little _slip_.” When she receives no reply, she keeps pushing. “Don’t lose sight of the _mission_ , Admiral Hammerly. If you intend to preach, practice it.”

~*~

“So, when keeping track of their vitals, the best thing to do for the recording part is to just hold the questis up to that ST code and let it download.”

Thunhe watches with both wonder and amusement as Doctor Mizunri holds his tablet up to the monitor and takes a quick stil of the code. “That definitely makes it easy to reference at a moment’s notice.” She laughs a little, thinking back to all the times her father has claimed that the true hero of history are the engineers and artists. “How are the scans filed? Chronologically?”

Mizunri nods, matching her grin. Or perhaps she is matching his -the doctor is by far one of the most cheerful people she’s ever met and it’s downright infectious. “Yep, and for busy days, the patients are sorted automatically into wards -both categories are alphabetized.”

Again Thunhe giggles. “I know a couple people who would swoon over this system.”

“Oh, I bet.” Then, he adds, “Had to fight horn and claw for this lovely lady outfitted with the latest tech.”

Thunhe makes a face at him. The _Lighthope_ is far from the fleets best ship, nor is she among the newest or on any important business. It seems impossible that even her chief medical officer would be able pull off such a feat. “How’d you manage that?”

“Suggested she be used as a short of testing grounds for final prototypes before they hit the market.” Mizunri huffs. “What the bureaucracy doesn’t know won’t kill them.” He nudges Thunhe’s questis with the back of his hand. “So, what can you tell me about this poor soul’s charts?”

The medic in training narrows her eyes in thought. His vitals are strange and foreign, and even against her father and Aunt Zikarynfa’s charts, everything looks _wrong_. “I can tell you for sure that humans confuse and concern me, Sir,” Thunhe says dryly. “But it looks like his fever’s finally broke.”

“Which is a good sign, if you recall.” Mizunri nods in approval. “What else?”

She scrunches her nose, shoulders sagging a little. Human vitals are strange, and there’s a part of her that wonders why Mizunri is trying to teach her. Then it hits her. This one, this “Lothali”, as Raw’nuruodo had called him, had been the navigator for the _Stardust_. Much like Thunhe herself… Maybe Mizunri had been one, too? It’s a big maybe, but not entirely impossible, she thinks distantly.

“Neural activity is…ah, hold on.” Thunhe pouts to herself, calling up her other Aunt’s own neural scans and looking them over for a moment. “It looks…” She tips the questis a bit to the left, holding it away from her eyes. “Looks like it’s a bit more regular. Like eh… Rapid eye…?”

“Rapid-eye-motion sleep,” Mizunri supplies gently. “Very good, Thunhe. So, what can we project for the next three hours?”

She falls silent again, sifting through the little information her brain has allowed her to store. At least she’ll have a good base knowledge when the term starts. And besides, serving on a warship as a medic would look fantastic on any resume if she decided to pursue a career in the emergency medical services.

“I assume he’ll wake up soon, but he’ll be disoriented. Confused, even.” Thunhe presses her lips into a thin line. “Raw’nuruodo _did_ report that he was already on the edge of delirium when navigating… I doubt it’ll be any lessened now.”

Doctor Mizunri nods and pockets his questis. Then, replacing his glasses at the bridge of his nose, he flicks at the nutrient and hydration drips. The flow was steady enough, from what Thunhe could tell. Hopefully it would be enough… The idea of a somewhat experimental patient in a very experimental medicenter made her a little uncomfortable. That, and there was going to be one hell of a language barrier. Thunhe has no doubt that he’ll be able to speak anything other than his native dialect when he wakes, and certainly no one in this part of the ship speaks whatever that dialect is. And the Admirals are indisposed… Thunhe’s lips twist into a thoughtful scowl. In the same situations, a disoriented and confused Chiss is a violent Chiss, Thunhe knows. Would a human be the same? Would having someone of his own species nearby help ease the transition?

“Sir?” Thunhe finally pipes up. “Would it be at all advantageous to bring the Mandalorian here?”

Mizunri hums in question, looking up from his questis. “I think I know where this is headed, but for the sake of your training, explain your rationale please.”

She draws in a deep breath through her nose, trying to ignore the tubes sticking out of the human’s face. “He’ll be disoriented, and it’s unlikely that he’ll be capable of speaking a language that any of us know.” She hesitates for a moment. “I believe it would be wise to have a translator present.”

There is a spell of silence broken only by the steady beeps and whirrs of medical machinery as the doctor considers the response. It takes several -probably intentional- nerve-wracking moments for him to finally speak.

“I’ll have him brought up,” Mizunri finally says, having lost exactly none of his cheerfulness. He sighs, then adds, “And then I’ll have a few words with Admiral Theliva… One of these days someone needs to get a decent translation system going for us poor medical officers.” 

“And for the politicians…” Thunhe tacks on dryly. “I pity their aides, at times.”

~*~

The first thing that registers in Ezra’s garbled thoughts is the slippery tube in his throat and the even itchier one up his nose. Surprisingly, however, he doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The second is the lack of pain _anywhere_. So either they had some hearty painkillers stashed on the _Stardust_ , or whatever medical station they found to dump him at were really, _really_ good at their jobs.

And the third is just how likely it is that he’s no longer aboard the _Stardust_. Everything is pure, soft white with lines of pale blues here and there, and chattering away in the corner of his hearing are two very tall, very blue aliens dressed in ridiculously formal-looking scrub uniforms.

Ezra tries fire off whatever questions he can form into proper sentences, but all that he hears come out are muffled groans and undignified squeaks. The blue heads turn to him, beady red eyes wide and mouth hanging agape as if he’d somehow terribly inconvenienced them by breathing.

 _Typical_.

The shorter of the two tucks her hands into her pockets and glances around awkwardly before busying herself with something well out of Ezra’s line of sight, leaving him to stare at the man. Slowly, as his wits return, Ezra can almost see a resemblance to-

It comes back to him all at once; the voices swirling around his ears and dreams haunting his waking steps, the ebb and flow and pushes and pulls of the Chaos’s gravity patterns, the solid pressure of _someone_ carrying him around… There had been a lot of stress and fear in the air for all of it… It must’ve taken its toll… Ezra feels his gut twist. How long had he been out for? Clearly _he_ made it to safety… what about the others?

“Don’t panic, kid.” A new voice cuts into his thoughts, drawing Ezra back to the present and the looming figure of the Mandalorian. “This is Doctor Strowm’izun’ritilia, Chief Medical Officer aboard the _Vigilant_.”

Ezra looks up at him with a lame croak. The tubes -for as much as they help him breathe- make talking a difficult task. Seeming to realize the problem, the doctor shrugs and says something to the Mandalorian that Ezra can only describe as “poetic gibberish”. Probably a trade language… Thrawn had tried to teach him years ago, but he just didn’t have the tongue for that sort of thing.

“Doctor Strowm’izun’ritilia says he can take the tubes out now. Are you feeling lightheaded at all?” Djarin translates slowly. He stumbles over the name once again, and Ezra wonders faintly whether or not _these_ Chiss are as loose about naming protocols as Thrawn had been.

Ezra shakes his head, and the doctor makes his way over, chatting up a storm. It all _sounds_ good, almost friendly, but Djarin can’t keep up for how fast the other man talks. In a way, it’s as amusing as it is baffling…

As Ezra sinks back into the pillows -which are remarkably soft, he realizes- the same lurking sense of dread and pain that he’d sensed back on the _Stardust_ creeps back into his veins.

Something, despite everything, is far past the point of being _wrong_.


	17. The Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 16 - The Enemy 
> 
> I started a new collection of deleted scenes, chapters, and early versions of chapters, so if y'all wanna read those, they're over in "Stomping Grounds"

_The strength of a warrior comes from both the mind and the body, and one cannot exist without the other. A great warrior’s strength comes from their awareness of the mind. A good warrior draws their strength from the use of the mind and body in tandem, but often fails to reflect on their mind. A fair warrior is aware of the connection, but rarely maintains the balance. Though some may still mistake strength for stubbornness and outward stoicism. This, for any warrior, can be a most fatal error…_

A voice in the dim light speaks. It is calculated, precise, and eerie amid the droning of the _Lighthipe_ ’s mechanics, sending a new rush of tension dripping down Safrin’s spine.

 _“_ I speak it.”

Safrin jumps a little, swinging around in the darkness. “Where are you?”

The voice is soft, she thinks, belonging to a human woman. Something about the way she speaks feels… _warm_. “I can sense you, follow my voice, little one.”

She takes a tentative step forward, hands close to her chest protectively.

“That’s it. Just a bit more.”

In the shadows, Safrin can just barely make out two tall horn-like appendages atop the speaker’s head and all thought of her being human dissipates like smoke in the wind. She makes a move to recoil, but she _can’t_.

 _Her body temperature is higher than that of a choses, but lower than a humans’, and her heart beats slower than both._ Upon looking just a little closer, Safrin has to force her jaw closed to keep it from dropping. She’s never seen something with _tails_ on its head, much less _three_. And _horns_. She’s not sure what to think about it. Sure, there are _plenty_ of strange and utterly unimaginable things lurking in the Chaos, but aside from Admiral Theliva and her Basic instructor, Safrin’s never seen another non-Chiss. Especially in such an informal setting.

She’s aware of the tremor in her voice, but doesn’t waste the energy attempting to mask it. “Who are you?”

_Her nerves get the better of her, but the sharp smack to her cheek snap her out of her thoughts._

“A traveler, a friend searching for another friend.” The woman speaks accented Sy Bisti in a way that threatens to lull Safrin to sleep. “You’re not part of the guard rotation, are you?”

 _Since when did the_ Lighthope _carry prisoners? And how long had these prisoners been aboard? Were they-_

“I- no. I’m not.” Probably not the best idea to just go around throwing out her name and station, she thinks sourly. “What’s your name?”

With her eyes fully adjusted, Safrin can see the prisoner quite clearly through the transperi. Though, her species is still a complete mystery. She watches her curiously as she plunks herself onto the floor outside the cell and pulls the little coil toy out of her pocket.

“Ashoka,” the woman says simply. “What is yours?”

Safrin hesitates. Would she be able to pronounce her name? Or would it be best to break protocols and just offer her core name? Best not to risk it... “Ufsa’fri’nona.”

Ashoka dips her head a little in what Safrin can only assume is some form of acknowledgment or respect. Body language escapes her grasp of understanding, especially for non-Chiss. “What brings you here, Ufsa’fri’nona?”

_Her core temperature remains constant, as does her pulse. But her head tips now, perhaps in curiosity. Her posture suggests interest._

Again, Safrin mulls over her options, opting to stay silent as she flicks the coil toy back and forth between her fingers. “I was curious. You said you could sense me. What did you mean by that?”

“I could -and still can- feel your fear,” Ashoka says, “As I have been able to since I was brought aboard.”

The little muscles in Safrin’s face twitch and her heart somersaults over itself. Whatever _that_ means, she’s not entirely sure if she likes it or not. “I don’t understand. Can your species smell fear pheromones?”

And if her fear is _that_ strong, maybe she really doesn’t belong in the Defense Force... It’s a sobering reality to face, and certainly a bitter and uncomfortable one, but there’s still a flicker of stubbornness in her that will not be so easily stomped out. Miserable or not, Goddesses be her witness, Safrin belongs in the military in in the military she will stay.

The alien woman shakes her head, “No, it is in your aura that the fear exists. It lingers, whether you feel it or not.”

Safrin narrows her eyes and hisses, baring sharp teeth. “How is it that you can create such grand claims without proof behind them?”

_She doesn’t react beyond straightening her back._

“I had heard rumors once that your people are able to sense a greater form of existence,” Ashoka begins. “My people call it “ _Force”_.”She speaks the word in Basic, though Safrin barely catches it in time. The language of Lesser Space is too heavy and clunky on her tongue -learning it (or attempting to) had so far been the most difficult encounter of her admittedly short life.

The implications of the alien’s statement is hard to navigate. On one hand, it makes perfect sense. Those with the Sights are often able to feel the emotions, and even the thoughts, of those around them. But for an alien to know of the Sky-Walkers...

Without warning, Safrin stands and runs at breakneck speed for the Admiral’s office. Or the Commander’s, which ever she reaches first. She’ll submit to any punishment they see fit for even taking to the prisoners, but that thought is barely a blossom in her mind. If the secret somehow got out of the Ascendancy, it could mean danger. A danger far past the point of imagination.

~*~

In all of the decades he’s known her, Raw’nuruodo has seen her battle more than just external enemies and political threats. The poor woman has never had any semblance of a decent immune system, if the not-entirely-secret stash of cleaning products in her offices are anything to base such a theory from. Then there was that time she’d insisted on wearing a respirator after a Navigator sneezed on the Bridge...

Raw’nuruodo eyes Ar’alani’s core temperature with no small amount of scrutiny. Easily taken ill, yes, but likely to submit before the last possible moment? Absolutely not. The woman seems in perpetual belief that _she’ll be fine, thank you_ , no matter the consequences to her person. Even now, as she relays the spread of information she collected to a _very_ intrigued Admiral Tro’owmis, he can tell that the exhaustion in her eyes and the sweat on her brow are not a result of her interrogation of Rossi.

Then she sneezes, and Tro’owmis stops mid-word, cheeks puffing up in poorly contained amusement. Amusement that is rightfully displayed. Ar’alani’s sneezes are hardly a sound one might expect an admiral built like a warship to make, but the little mountain cat “puff” of air and tiny shake of her head instantly obliterates any intimidation factors Ar’alani has tried to establish. The involuntary action seems to have remained the same since she was still being breastfed...

Clearly, however, this is not the first time Tro’owmis has seen her former commander stubbornly try to fight a battle she cannot possibly hope to win, as she recovers form her fir of giggles and glares sternly at the Sovereign.

“So do I have to send someone aboard to reel you in and lock your cabin from the outside, or are you going to actually go to the medicenter of your own volition this time?” Tro’owmis asks, a hint of humor still gracing the undertones of her voice.

Ar’alani hisses quietly, displaying sharp canines. “I will be fine, Admiral,” she says stiffly. “Just a bit of dust in the air.”

Tro’owmis scoffs. “Aboard the _Vigilant_? Unlikely.” The admiral peaks past Ar’alani to where Raw’nuruodo is sitting calmly, watching the exchange. “See to it that this stubborn _wampa k'en k'rcin'i'v_ doesn’t fall over on the bridge, eh?” Then, turning back to Ar’alani, she adds, “Sovereign or not, I’ll still come out there and kick your ass- all the way back to Csilla if I have to.”

Ar’alani grumbles something under her breath, and judging solely on her expressions, it’s a series of profanities aimed directly at the other woman. “I’m _fine_ ,” she reiterates harshly. Or, at least she tries to. The sentence is broken apart by another sneeze, and Tro’owmis sighs in exasperation.

“Raw’nuruodo?”

He perks up a little returning his attention to o the holoscreen. “I will do what I can, Admiral. You have my word.”

“Good,” Tro’owmis nods firmly. “Because I have absolutely no qualms about kicking your ass, too. In fact...”

_She trails off, as if weighing the gravity of revealing the rest of the words. Her eyes grow dark._

“There’s probably a lot of people who would thank me for kicking yours in particular,” the admiral scowls. “The Aristocra’s already tied up in a thousand legal knots because of you and it’s not even been a week.”

Raw’nuruodo’s brows knit together with mild offense. “If this is regarding the breach in my exile-“

A bark of shrill, humorless laughter tears through the woman’s throat. “Oh no. No, that doesn’t even _begin_ to scratch the surface this time.” Tro’owmis _glares_ at him. “It’s _everything else_ involved in your arrival that’s got tongues flapping and chairs flying. _Not to mention_ everything about your latest human pet that our dear, ill-fallen Sovereign here has told me.”

_Every trace of humor has left her expression, resulting in an aura of severity about her person. It is... disconcerting._

Ar’alani nods faintly. “As said, we’ve transferred her to the _Vigilant_ ’s isolation block under constant watch. I’ve sent word to Admiral Idelu'cagi and Picket Force Nine. Vi’ll be keeping an eye out in the Fringes for any sign of unrest or disturbances.”

Tro’owmis purses her lips. “If you hadn’t I was about to make the call myself.”

_She sighs deeply and her posture sags a bit, indicating fatigue. Perhaps mental in nature._

“Would it not be advantageous to inform the Aristocra of the matter as well?” Raw’nuruodo chimes in. “Surely they should know to prepare-“

“Not an option right now,” Ar’alani cuts him off with a firm shake of her head before turning back to the holoscreen. “I trust that the ruling Patriarchs and Matriarchs have at least been informed?”

“They have,” Tro’owmis confirms, eyeing Raw’nuruodo hesitantly. “A few of them are wrapped up in the Copero fiasco.”

_She inclines her head towards Ar’alani, eyes conveying an unspoken order._

_Ar’alani nods in turn_.

“Speaking of politics, I’ve got to run. Someone poked at the Kivu Matriarch’s buttons and apparently the entire chamber is in uproar over some Ufsa cadet.” Tro’owmis rolls her eyes. “Keep me posted, Sovereign. May warrior’s fortune favor you.”

Ar’alani smiles politely. “You as well, Admiral.”

“ _And go to the dammed medicenter!”_

The Sovereign is not given the chance to reply as the transmission cuts off almost before Tro’owmis is done speaking. Ar’alani glowers at the empty screen.

 _Her pulse grows more irregular_ , _and her breathing becomes more obviously labored._

“While you may not be compelled to follow Admiral Tro’owmis’s orders, as I understand that she is not your superior,” Raw’nuruodo says flatly, rising from his chair. “I am. Dare I say, Sovereign, a visit to the doctors may be in the best interest of everyone aboard this vessel.”

Ar’alani’s piercing glare raises to the man. Her eyes are painfully dim, and no matter how hard she appears to fight it down, there is clear exhaustion in her face and body language. “Dare you, indeed,” she grumbles, rather stubborn about hooking her knees under her desk chair to avoid being picked up.

Raw’nuruodo sighs deeply. “This will be notably easier on the both of us if you allow this to happen, Admiral.”

Another irked hiss.

“ _Ar’alani_.” He’s careful to keep a reasonable amount of threat in his tone. Raw’nuruodo _can_ and _will_ carry the entire chair if he has to.

The hiss turns into a low growling deep in her chest and the man lets out an exasperated huff. _Normally_ the roles are reversed and it’s the admiral who’s carrying _him_ away from something. “This is not the ideal course of actions, Admiral,” Rawn tries again this time with more diplomacy. “You will be unfit for command if you do not seek treatment _and_ risk infecting the remainder of the crew if you carry on in this manner.”

There’s a moment of tense silence as Ar’alani does her best to glare Raw’nuruodo into an early grave. She fails, quite spectacularly, and her knees and shoulders go slack in Raw’nuruodo’s grip.

“ _Thank you_.”

~*~

Ezra stares at the mug of broth cradled in his hands. It’s simple enough, with two handles instead of one or none, making for much easier handling when one’s hands are unsteady, and is light enough to hold easily. And whatever’s in the broth itself is somewhere between sweet and spicy…It’s certainly not terrible, and according to Din’s translation, it’s supposed to be cook full of nutrients.   
Apparently the Chiss had been doing their homework. How and why are the only questions left on the matter.

He takes another long sip of the broth, savoring the tang when he lowers the mug again. The Mandalorian hasn’t left the foot of his bed since he arrived, something Ezra is both thankful for and finds extremely disconcerting. It nags at him, threatening to nauseate him.

It’s not until the doctor scurries out of the room, apparently tasked to deal with a sick and brutally stubborn admiral that Ezra confronts him.

“So, what happened?” He asks hesitantly. “On Mandalore, I mean.”

Din turns a little more towards him, the motion stiff and jerking. “What?”

Ezra nods vaguely to the armor radiating misery. “Your armor isn’t family-forged… What happened?” Somewhere deep in his gut, he expects to hear the worst. It’s the only explanation that he’s managed to come up with over the past month that makes any sense. And yet the last thing he wants is for it to be true. If Mandalore had finally fallen to the Empire, who had made it out alive aside from Din? What clans, if any, survived? Had Sabine?

The Mandalorian visibly deflates as if Ezra has summoned a great many painful memories. It’s almost enough to confirm his suspicions.

“I was a foundling,” he says finally. “But my armor was badly damaged. It could not be reforged properly. The beskar...” Din’s voice cracks almost imperceptibly. Had he not been looking, Ezra might’ve missed it. Then, as if a damn broke, the Mandalorian breaks down and the story spills from him like a great and tragic flood.

As he speaks, Ezra hones in on the regrets he holds, on the true weight of the armor he bears, on the plague of memories, on the names he lists in vigil each morning. In the man’s voice Ezra can hear fire and flame and taste blood and soot and in an instant he’s back on Mandalore in the wake of the Duchess, Sabine’s anguish and gut-wrenching sobs consuming him once more.

“And…” the question is inevitable. The odds of hearing a definite answer are slim, but he needs to hear _someone_ say _something_. “What did you know of Clan Wren?” Ezra knows his voice is small and timid. Dealing with such a trivial thing is far from at the forefront of his mind.

Din inhales, holds the breath, then shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry kid, I never really knew any of the smaller Clans. At least not well enough to know if there were survivors…”

Ezra’s gaze falls once more to the mug in his hands. An admission of ignorance is an admission all the same, and it’s all Ezra needs to draw his final conclusion. He can feel it in the man’s armor, in his posture, in his voice, even in the few thoughts he can sense.

“Someone you knew?”

The Jedi pulls his lips between his teeth, gnawing them thoughtfully. “She was a good friend of mine… We fought together in the Rebellion.”

“What was her name?” Din asks soberly. “I…I will speak her name in my partayli.”

“Sabine,” Ezra says quietly, unable to raise his voice any further. “She was the Heiress of Clan Wren.”

When the Mandalorian speaks again, it is barely a mumble, but it is a sound Ezra knows well now.

“ _Mhi su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, mhi partayli, gar darasuum. Viszla, Rok, Kas’iel, Wren…”_


	18. The Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 17 - The Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author learned some mildly heartbreaking things about Formbi's legends characterization while researching other things for the chapter and deeply considered giving him a personality overhaul but settled for a mild alteration to the future plot instead

_Often times in politics, representatives are placed into situations that require great amounts of diplomacy and tact, as well as no small degree of -dare it be said- compassion or empathy. Times like these may be the politician’s defining moments, for better or for worse, for it is these situations that show the politician’s sure nature to those the politician represents. Should the politician lose the faith and trust of his people, he risks not only his reputation and career, but the lives of those he represents. And should the people chose to revolt, the outcome may become filled with innocent blood._

The durasteel beneath Commodore Ainija’s feet shifts almost imperceptibly as the _Insidious_ drops out of hyperspace. A glance down at the navigational charts spread out across the command bridge’s displays shows their position in the Galactic Northeast of Sector K6. She frowns. Not far off their charted course, but far enough that it’s concerning. Being this close to Mid-Rim territories could spell disaster.

Lips twisting into a frown, Ainija strides across the bridge to the crew pits. “Helm, explain cause of course diversion?”

Unlike most aboard the _Insidious_ , this officer is young, likely fresh off the line during the final days of Royal Imperial, though their plaque designates them as a Lieutenant. Interesting, Ainija thinks. Young, but clearly deserving of their position. And hopefully able to produce a clear explanation for the diversion.

“Radar and scanners caught wind of a New Republic patrol fleet moving in along our intended vector, Commodore,” the Lieutenant reports evenly. “I corrected our position to account for the trajectory and course we expected them to take based on current positional data.”

Ainija lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “And that correction returned us to Imperial space?”

“Yes Sir,” she says. “The Empire controls everything from Bastion to Bilbringi, as far to the east as Borgo Prime.”

“All under the table, I assume?” Ainija remarks dryly. The comment draws a hesitant, breathy laugh from the lieutenant. Alpha shifts are ling, Ainija knows, and anything to lighten the mood so early in the day does wonders to lift morale.

“If it isn’t too bold of me Commodore, I say that it’s only like that for now.”

At the other end of the bridge, the hatch hisses open, followed by the rhythmic echo of polished boots on steel. “Cut the idle chatter, Commodore. When can we make the next jump?”

Ainija stiffens, hands instantly snapping to her sides at attention. “Soon enough, Admiral. We were forced to divert our course to avoid contact with a New Republic fleet.”

“A joke in itself,” Hammerly scoffs. “We’d’ve blown them from the sky in an instant.” She lets the comment hang in the air for a moment, more than enough time for Ainija to begin fidgeting uncomfortably. The rank really must be going to her head… “Helm?”

“If we’re to continue to sector G-7, we’ll be ready for the first jump in three minutes.”

“Very well. Make it so.” Hammerly nods before turning her attention to the holotable. “What do you know of the _Outbound Flight_ , Commodore?”

Ainija perks up. “Sir?”

The admiral makes a vague gesture to the table and incomplete starmaps and ship schematics now projected over it. “These are the remains of the ill-fated expedition’s last navigational record, recovered by our own Grand Admiral Thrawn nearly thirty years go, shortly after he ensured its destruction. Study it a moment, then tell me what you see.”

Ainija casts a wary look at the woman, curiosity now plaguing her as she stepped into the soft glow of the maps. It’s certainly a sight to behold, even if one does not know what one is looking at, Ainija thinks to herself. Another map outlines the planned route, well into the Unknown Regions and even beyond the very edges of the galaxy. The mission, had it succeeded, would have marked the first attempts made by any known species to explore the universe beyond their own galaxy. It had been the wet dream of scientists and physicists for heaven’s knew how long, and at the time had been the most ambitious project in history.

And the deadliest, Ainija grimaces. Of the five-thousand crew and astonishing _forty-five thousand_ civilians aboard, all lives had been lost less than a third of the way into the journey, with all records pointing to Thrawn and the intervention of several un-contacted species. Whatever pits of hell Hammerly had to visit to find theses records, they would be invaluable once they crossed fully into the Unknown Regions.

“Well, Commodore?”

Hammerly’s voice is like ice atop already cold water, sending a strange sense of dread dripping down Ainija’s spine.

She straightens her posture, clearing her throat before she dares to speak. “Time interval aside, this is perhaps the most valuable map aboard this vessel, given the mission. Even without knowing exact systems or gravity wells, we’ll still be able to use the approximations made for the _Outbound Flight_ to supplement Nightshrike’s last known vector.”

The admiral hums, a hint of satisfaction hiding within a dangerous smile. “And then, Commodore?”

Ainija thinks for a moment, wondering if this is at all what it might’ve felt like to serve under the famed alien Admiral. “If we can map out all possible paths from the Nightshrike trajectory, then there’s a chance one of them will overlap with those of the _Outbound Flight_ , leading us closer to the Asset.”

“Very good, Commodore Ainija,” Hammerly praises, gaze falling once more to the maps and reports. “Inform Moff Gideon that we are one step closer to his prize.”

~*~

Zicher rests her elbows atop her desk and runs her fingers though her hair, no longer caring if it’s mussed beyond regulation or recognition. Ar’alani’s orders to Admiral Idelu'cagi and the first draft of the communiques to the Aristocra are spread out across holos scattered around her desk as if to mock her. It seems a terrible irony to her; the very people they’d sought alliances with now marching to war against the Ascendancy. Perhaps one day she’d be able to find humor in it.

And of course, Ar’alani’s immune system has chosen now, of all possible times, to fail her. It’s not that Zicher doesn’t trust the _Vigilant’_ s first officer, it’s that she doesn’t trust the _Vigilant_ ’s first officer to have the same tolerance for any potential sithspit plan of Raw’nuruodo’s. Plans that Ar’alani would sigh and hem and hum about for a few seconds then turn a blind eye to whatever he did. Mostly because she knows him like the back of her own hand, Zicher thinks almost sourly. A luxury that will be sorely needed, should a conflict arise before the Admiral’s health returns.

The chime at her office hatch comes suddenly, starting Zicher out of her daze. When the hatch opens, The blur of pale grey isn’t what she’s expecting, and it takes her a solid ten seconds to realize that it’s Cadet Ufsa’fri’nona whose palms are splayed out on the desk, effectively obscuring the holos.

“I do hope you have good reason for this intrusion, Cade-“

“One of the prisoners,” Safrin huffs out between pants, “She knows about the Sky-Walkers.”

Zicher’s eyes widen, flashing with sudden anger. As if her day hadn’t already been sour enough. Still, she has to be careful. The cadet is prone to -she hesitates to use the term “exaggeration”, but Safrin _has_ been known to make mountains out of mitehills. But that’s not the only issue at hand now. Cadet Ufsa’fri’nona had been assigned to _supply_ , not security. The fact that she’d even had contact with the prisoners without direct orders from Zicher or Theliva could be grounds for immediate dismissal. _But_ if that contact resulted in the CDF learning about a potential threat, one they were en route to _Csilla_ will, that could overshadow _how_ she got the information.

One step at a time.

Zicher dismisses the holos littering her desk before folding her hands atop the surface. “Explain, Cadet. And in as much detail as possible, if you would.”

Safrin plunks herself down into a chair, and almost instantly her face scrunches with a sharp click of her tongue and snap of her fingers.

Right. Zicher had almost forgotten about that. 

The cadet does, indeed, start at the beginning, recounting how she’d intended to return too her quarters for the night at the end of her shift and catch up on reports and reading assignments for Taharim. How she’d distracted herself with a toy to keep her ticking at a minimum, how she’d felt an alien compulsion to just _go_ -whatever that meant. Safrin doesn’t claim to understand it, and even readily admits to not having the faintest idea what led her to the detention level. Zicher simply scoots her back on track, and with the right prompting, the cadet continues to rattle on with a jarringly detailed description of the prisoner’s posture, tone of voice, and mildly cryptic manner of speech in Sy Bisti -not an easy language to appear ominous in, Zicher thinks to herself.

In reality, absolutely nothing that Ufsa’fri’nona can come up with to excuse her defiance of standing orders in court, even with the best lawyers on her side. It’s too… Zicher can’t quite pinpoint it. Mystical? Farfetched? If she was to ask one of the Navigators to “translate” the whole ordeal, Zicher has a very good feeling that the little girls might know _exactly_ what the cadet had experienced. The idea doesn’t comfort her in the slightest.

With a heavy sigh, shoulders now weighed down with the heap of information Ufsa’fri’nona has dumped on her, Zicher leans back in her chair, fingers laced together in front of her mouth. What she wouldn’t give for a stiff drink… She regards the cadet with cation and in test, as if the girl is a battle plan. And in a way, Zicher muses, she really is. After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Zicher lets out the breath in one short puff.

“I will speak with Admiral Theliva when he returns from the _Vigilant_ ,” Zicher announces. “Thank you, Cadet, for your candor about the situation. You are dismissed. Unless,” she tacks on before the cadet can make her escape, “there is anything else you wish to report? How has your time in Supply been?”

Safrin visibly winces, the muscles in her neck tightening. “Nothing of consequence to report, Commander,” she says shyly, picking at a loose thread on he sleeve. “Just a little hiccup over color-coordination and some pens…”

A small smile tugs at Zicher’s lips. “A hiccup I’m sure will serve you well in the future.” She can still remember several of her own _hiccups_ in life and how they’d all managed to teach her some important lesson years later. Specifically one regarding a heated conversation about graph markers...

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Thank you.”

Zicher dips her head a little. “You’re free to go, Cadet. Thank you.”

She stands, and with a click of her heels she crosses a fist to her heart. “Good night, Commander.”

“To you as well.”

_Sithspit._

~*~

Those two days pass unbearably quickly and before long Thrass is grumpily marching back to his office, travel cup of straight black caf in his hand and a permeant look of displeasure etched into his face. He’d rather be literally _anywhere_ , even the digestive tract of a wampa, than have to put up with another minute of whatever nonsense was about to be thrown his way. But with any luck at all, now that everyone is presumably well rested, they’ll be able to reach some sort of agreement and move onto the voting process. That would be progress enough, Thrass dares to hope. And dare he continue to hope that the chance to catch up on sleep will make it easier for the other Syndics and Speakers to see reason. Perhaps he is a fool, but fortune favors fools, Thrass has discovered. The continued existence of Chaf’orm’bintrano is evidence enough of such a claim.

_Speaking of blasphemy…_

_“_ Good day, Patriarch Mitth’ras’safis.”

Thrass sighs, praying to the goddesses that the encounter will be swift. “Good day, Aristocra. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Formbi strides right past him, helping himself to the drink cart. A little early for such a thing, in Thrash’s opinion, though to say it out loud might have made him into a hypocrite. “Can I not simply wish a colleague “good day”?” His expression reads as that of a scandalized man, and Thrass has to force himself to smile and not be sick at the sight. “No, as a matter of fact, I had hoped to cross your path before parliament convenes for the day.”

The patriarch lifts a wary brow, already exhausted of the day. “And what should merit such a thing?”

Formbi turns to face him, leaning his weight against one of the overstuffed chairs near the desk with a drink in his free hand. How the man can manage to look so at ease while acting the part of a puddle of molding tsasci slime escapes him entirely.

“As I am to understand it, the _Lighthope_ made contact with a pair of alien vessels tracing back to _Lesser Space_ , of all places,” Formbi’s lips twitch as he takes another slow sip from the cut crystal glass. “Rumor has it that one of those vessels was ferry to _Mitth’raw’nuruodo_.” There is a distinct bite of sarcasm and taunting in the man’s tone and Thrass has to busy himself with a stack of data pads to keep from launching himself across his desk at him.

“I wasn’t aware that news could travel so fast within an empty hall,” Thrass says with forced decorum. He’d be speaking with that aide later… Such information was _not_ , by any circumstances, to be shared with rival houses. Especially during such a tense period in the season. “Yet I find myself utterly lacking in surprise.”

Formbi’s face, to Thrass’s utter confusion, slips into genuine apprehension. “I had in fact intended to offer my support, should it ever be required.”

Thrass scoffs. And he’s to believe such a thing? Nothing the Aristocra says is to be taken at face value, Thrass knows all too well. Everything must be filed away with a warming label for whoever is the next one to pull it out. This is far from the first time the man has made idle talk, but then again…

They’ve had momentary encounters in the past. Quiet arrangements spoken only once and then never again, favors made behind closed doors and forgetting of them once complete. Each, in moments of dire need, have covered the other’s back. Rarely are these instances held over heads, though it has been known to happen. Though, this would not be the first time when they have come across a rare alliance in regard to Mitth’raw’nuruodo. Thrass still remembers his first weeks after return to the Ascendancy, rescued by Formbi and his niece, of all people, aboard their family’s consular vessel. He’d taken the fall for the failure of the _Outbound Flight_ , offsetting a great deal of the blame from Thrawn. Twenty-four years, and they have not spoken a word of it since Formbi’s silent, resolute nod at the end of the month-long hearings.

They meet each other’s stare for a long, contemplative moment in which Thrass forgets to draw a proper breath only after he’s thought of it. But the sincerity never fades.

Thrass corrects his posture and extends his arm in truce. “I presume this is in part an apology for your commentary of Irizi’kary’nfa and Mitth’eli’vant’s adoptions?”

“In part.” Formbi grips the Patriarch’s forearm, the ghost of apology appearing on his face. “Feesa had several choice words for me and many others during the break. Words I could not ignore.”

“She has a gift for such things.” At least that explained how Formbi had even found out about the _Lighthope_ ’ _s_ discoveries. As if Thrass needed further convincing that every aide and secretary gossiped weekly over drinks…

Formbi nods once, downs the remainder of his drink, and straightens the sash across his chest. “All the same, may fools’ fortune favor you and your defense, Patriarch. I shall see you in chambers.”

“And I you,” Thrass replies numbly, eyes trained on the empty glass on his desk. He’d been so caught up in the fight for Theliva and Zikarynfa that he’d almost entirely neglected to think about Thrawn.

His chaotic little brother…

The sweet little boy who was endlessly curious of everything around him.

The brave soldier who pushed onwards with the best of intentions and the purest heart…

Thrass had returned to the Ascendancy responsible for his brother’s exile on the most feeble of grounds.

The same Ascendancy now trying to push that same fate on three others just for daring to exist within their boarders.

With the echo of Formbi’s arm against his own, Thrass’s face sets in stone as he makes the long journey from his office to the parliament chambers. Before anything else can happen, he has a war to win.

And he’s just gained a powerful ally…


	19. The Antagonist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 18 - The Antagonist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the adhd was strong with me tonight when I somehow ended up looking up panda sancuaries as a reasult of googling one of the ruling families and got sidetracked for three hours only to remmebr that i was supposed to be on tumblr looking for one of cathouse_mary's Chissmas prompts for an insult word...  
> Also Feesa is Formbi’s niece in canon and was one of the ones who took the fall for the fate of the Outbound Flight, along with her uncle. I promise not all of the Chiss here are just pulled out of bloody nowhere

_The art of communication is perhaps the most diverse of any art form known to time, varying not from culture to culture or species to species, but instead varying from individual to individual, resulting in the existence of infinite forms of the art. It is with no small degree of decorum and tact that one must approach conversation with an unknown partner, and at times even more so with partners who are known. In many cases, conversation comes easily, relying on simple subject matter that holds little controversy or overall importance. Other times, conversation may begin with a lightness of heart, only to divulge into a darkness of any number of sources. When one elects to speak with a new partner, they take the risk of their own free will, not knowing at the start what sort of conversation will be had. Thus the conversationalist must be open and prepared for any number of outcomes, both positive and negative. When a time undoubtedly comes where the conversationalist is proven to be incorrect, they must accept this with grace, lest they decide to risk creating an enemy._

With the Mandalorian and his son comfortably moved into one of the spare ambassador’s quarters, Thunhe’s mission is to make sure they’ll be properly supplied for the trip back to Csilla, as well as however long they’ll all be stuck aboard before the Aristocra allows even more aliens to dare exist on the planet. Two is, apparently, more than they’re comfortable with. Three is pushing luck. Six more? Unthinkable.  
Thunhe has heard talk of the cadet in supply, how she fusses over precise organization and is unbelievably quick to spot patterns and solve them, how she keeps to herself and barely talks to anyone unless approached first. She knows the cadet is an Ufsa, but she’s never known any of them to be shy. As a family, they’re _almost_ as fond of hearing their own voices as the _Chaf._ Thunhe can’t help but hope she’ll be there when she arrives to collect whatever can be made into baby supplies and toys. She skims over the list on her questis, frowning. Hopefully the Mandalorian is clever enough to make nappies and little toys out of spare uniforms or towels…

Quartermaster Plikh’ecozo'zothae shakes his head a little as he sifts through the inventories, muttering to himself about how the files had been reorganized without him knowing. “I don’t know why the Admiral thought it was a good idea to allow a kid on board without calling for a proper caregiver first… If she’d let me know three days ago we could’ve sent a request to Nahiri Outpost for some decent…” His lips press into a thin line. “Well, decent _anything_. What does the little csit even _eat_?”

“He’s omnivorous,” Thunhe offers, wondering the same about simply requesting actual care equipment and provisions. Maybe Ar’alani didn’t want someone misinterpreting the request and kickstarting some rumor about scandal aboard her ship? “So far he’s eaten whatever’s put in front of him. And even some things that aren’t,” she adds under her breath, silently mourning the chewed-on hem of her favorite shirt.

Khecozoz makes a face. “And no allergic reactions?”

Thunhe shakes her head. “None so far. I did add a few things that could be remade into teething toys, too. I think he might be at that stage in infancy.”

The quartermaster’s mouth twists in thought as he looks over the list. “Resourceful, I grant you that. Still, did you clear this list with the Admiral?”

“Most of this was her idea,” Thunhe says flatly. “I do need this quickly, you know.”

“I do, don’t get your hyperdrive in a twist,” Khecozoz grumbles, “New trainee decided to reorganize everything when I was off yesterday. She’s good but this system is all sorts of muddled in my opinion.”

Thunhe lifts a curious brow. “How so, Quartermaster?”

He shrugs. “It just _is._ From what I can see, everything is chronologically listed _within_ alphabetized files _within_ alphabetized categories, with a color system _based on the alphabetization and the spectral order of visible light_.”

“Sounds like she did a good job,” Thunhe remarks, peering over his shoulder at the screens. _Good job, indeed,_ Thunhe thinks, more than a little bit in awe. How anyone could complain about such a flawless system is entirely beyond her. Hells, she’d kill to have someone reorganize the medbay with such precision. “Would it be simpler to have the orders packed up, and I’ll just come back later to pick it all up?”

“Most likely,” Khecozoz sighs. “Some of this stuff hasn’t been needed en masse for a while. Might take me a minute to dig it all up.”

Thunhe’s posture relaxes a little, though the insistent buzzing and thrumming of the engines in this part of the ship makes her nauseous. “I’ll be in Medical whenever this is all ready. Thank you.” With a single nod and a sharp sigh, Thunhe turns on her heel and leaves the deck. Though, as she passes one of the inventory consoles, a shiver passes through her like bitter wind. She shudders, every hair on the back of her neck standing on end, and casts one last look at the officer manning the station.

 _No,_ Thunhe’s eyes narrow. _Not “officer”. “Cadet”._

No one had told her that the Ufsa cadet with the insane gift for patterns -and organization, apparently- had been a Sky-Walker…

~*~

Status as a barely welcomed house-guest does little to prevent Rawn from slipping back into the Chiss military schedule engraved into his mind. Living aboard humans warships for so long had taken an unfortunate toll on his personal schedules and attempts to get anything done. How humans ever managed to evolve to dominate the galaxy whilst requiring so many hours of sleep _per night_ , he will never understand. But being back aboard a _Chiss_ ship… The shift cycles are shorter, with more rotations throughout the day to play into the notoriously short attention spans of under-stimulated Chiss. On a routine patrol mission, as Rawn suspects both the _Vigilant_ and the _Lighthope_ have been tasked with, there is little to do and minds tend to stray. As a countermeasure, the CDF had long since implemented a more accommodating rotation schedule. And over the generations, it appears to have worked in everyones favor.

He’s been allowed to have supervised time away from his quarters, and thus far he’s managed to befriend his guards to varying degrees. One in particular, Trir'adatha'nluru, seems barely out of whatever academy she’d attended and far too full of questions for her own good. She’s the easiest to talk to, Rawn has decided. And thankfully, she’s on duty again this rotation.

“Good evening to you, Agent Radathan,” Rawn greets her at the guard change, smiling politely. “Are you well?”

Radathan perks up a little once her attention is away from her predecessor, but her face quickly falls in something parallel to pity. “Good evening, Raw’nuruodo. I was instructed to deliver this message from the _Lighthope_.” She pulls a datachip from a pouch on her belt and holds it out for him to take.

He takes the chip and pockets it. “Admiral Theliva has returned to his station, then?”

“I believe so, yes.”

_Her face and stance shift subtly._

Rawn nods, acknowledging the statement. “Thank you for passing this along, Agent. I promise not to be disturbance during your rotation.”

The line has the exact effect he’d hoped for as mischief flashes in her eyes. “If all the stories I hear are true…” Radathan grins. “I won’t be too upset if you break it.”

“I shall nevertheless endeavor to refrain from making your life difficult.” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “I was to meet with Admiral Theliva tomorrow during second shift. Do you know who will be accompanying me to the _Lighthope_?”

Radathan grimaces, and Rawn can see the effort it takes for her to maintain eye contact. “I have not received individual orders, however I believe there may be something of that nature on that datachip.”

“I see.” _He does not_. Rawn folds his hands neatly behind his back, offering a small, respectful bow of his head. “Then I bid you good evening, Agent Radathan.”

She matches his bow, still smiling, and closes the hatch on an ever-innocent Rawn.

Ignorance, of course, truly can be a blissful thing. And it is her ignorance that will be to his advantage. She doesn’t want to see her dressed-down as a result of his actions, but war has casualties and the rank of Trir'adatha'nluru will just have to be one of those. It doesn’t take more than an hour for Rawn to decide that no, Mitth’eli’vant is not aboard the _Vigilant_ , and yes, he absolutely is avoiding Rawn. After so many years of clear communication… Rawn nearly kicks himself for not clarifying instantly that the marriage is, in fact, a ruse designed to garner pity on Lysatra in order to survive.

 _Surely_ , he tries to rectify, _if Eli -Theliva- is raising a child then surely his is bonded._

Rawn presses his lips into a thin, tight line. Theliva had not been wearing a bonding token at the time of the interrogation. Perhaps he -like many others in service- simply chose not to wear it while in uniform?

 _Someone_ had to have caught his eye, and been caught in kind. Even to adopt a child he would -by Chiss customs and law- be _required_ to prove some sort of partnership or intended bonding. Being a Mitth adoptee would not be enough.

But if Theliva _isn’t_ bonded, chances are Rawn is in for one hell of a chewing out from Ar’alani the next time their paths cross.

~*~

Of all the plans Theliva might’ve had for the day, receiving word that one of the Ascendancy’s best-kept and most valuable secrets is on the line was certainly not on his agenda. Although certainly there is a right way to handle it, and a wrong way to handle it. The right way, Theliva assumes, is to keep a level head and act on sound information, to hold himself to the standards of an Admiral of the CDF. The wrong way, of course, being the exact opposite of that.

Right now, he’s not sure where on that line he is.

Zicher, not exactly known for having an even temperament, had been seven kinds of flustered and jittery upon coming him from her office. Just in case, Theliva had excused himself from the interrogation annex to take the call.

And now, barreling down the halls of the Mitth’s his own cruiser, Theliva’s mind is a cluttered mess of things that should have been said before he left. But that’s not important, no matter how much he wishes it was. With Zicher and his personal bodyguards flanking him, he marches through the hall connecting the brig from the rest of the vessel. Interrogation is far from his specialty, despite all of Ar’alani’s efforts to teach him, but Zicher should be able to get _something_ for them.

“Detainee Zero-Nine-Alpha-One, place your hands on your head,” Theliva says in Basic. “We have some questions for you.”

The Togruta does as she’s told, expression flat with barely hidden contempt. She’ll cooperate more than the Mandalorian, Theliva knows, but there are still a great many things he doesn’t trust about their guests. With a deep breath, Theliva strides through the open hatch and takes a seat across the cell from her. Zicher looms nearby, stalking about behind him like a coiled rock snake. Intimidation and little else.

“I suppose we can chat.”

Theliva huffs a humorless laugh through his nose. “You don’t get to make that call. What do you know about the name “Skywalker”?” He’d heard Thrawn mention it in passing over the years, usually in reference to the Emperor’s right hand man, but once he’d ended up in the Unknown Regions, Theliva came to assume it just meant that the man was a Navigator of some sort.

Not at all to anyone’s surprise, the Togruta stiffens, eyes going wide. Sadness flicks across her face, then pain, anger, and regret all in that order. But it only lasts a few seconds before the expression becomes neutral again. Behind him, Theliva knows Zicher has stopped dead in her tracks. Being in the same room as a non-chess navigator can’t be easy for her, especially with the turmoil of emotions the alien must be radiating with.

“His name was Anakin Skywalker,” she says finally. “He was a knight of the Jedi order, and a General during the Clone Wars.” The sadness bleeds into her voice as Zicher resumes her pacing. “And he was my master many years ago.”

A strange sense of relief settles over Theliva’s mind, but it does nothing to lessen the anxiety of the situation, paranoia clawing at his heart and lungs. Theliva hadn’t heard of the _Jedi_ since he last parted ways with Thrawn, when he was dealing with a rebel cell on Lothal _ten years ago_. Then again, the more he’d been around Sky-Walkers, the more he wondered if there had ever been any Chiss Jedi. Thrass had told his stories, but they were few and far between and centuries -if not millennia- old. No doubt their accuracy had been lost to time.

Theliva sets his jaw. “Is that all? Or is there more you would like to tell us.”

The Togruta shakes her head almost imperceptibly. “If you don’t believe me, ask your Grand Admiral,” she bites out, all traces of sadness and remorse gone from her voice. “He knows _plenty_ about our kind.”

Once again Theliva hears Zicher’s boots fall still and she grips the back of his chair. “How do you know of Mitth’raw’nuruodo?” Like the prisoner, Zicher’s voice is cold and edged with anger.

The muscles of her forehead tick up on one side, much like a human quirking a brow. “So that is his name. Good to know.”

“How are you daring to-“ Zicher lunges, only to be caught by the belt and held in place next to Theliva.

Now the woman’s face reads with amusement, maybe even satisfaction. “Oh? Do you not know what he did in his exile? The crimes he committed?”

Theliva stiffens. They were _hardly_ crimes. More than anything, Thrawn had worked _against_ the war crimes being committed throughout the Empire, against the inhumanity and injustices. Unless his mind had taken a sharp turn after Theliva’s departure.

Unless, of course, the last ten years had been bloody and cruel and so utterly unlike Thrawn-

He tilts his jaw up in mild contempt. “That is not the issue here, Tano.” Keeping his accent at bay with his stresses rising is difficult, even after so long. “What do you know of “Skywalker”?”

“I already told you.” She enunciates each syllable to the point of insult. “His name was Anakin, and he was a Jedi and general during the Clone Wars. He _also_ had dealings with your Grand Admiral around that time, then he _served_ under my master in the Empire.”

Theliva lifts a cautious brow at Zicher. She nods once -more of a stiff blink, really- and turns on her heel to leave. In her wake, Theliva leans more against the chair and crosses his arms loosely. “So then you are a Jedi.” It is not a question, and when he does not receive a reply, he continues. “What can you tell me about the Force? How it flows on this ship.” He makes a wide, vague gesture to their surroundings.

There is a long spell of silence that Theliva recognizes from time spent with Navigators. She’s doing exactly what he asked; thinking, sensing, processing… Then her face twists in curiosity.

“More than I expected… Interesting, Admiral.”

His brow knits together. “Care to explain?”

“Sixty-three aboard your ship, Admiral Theliva, possess the gift.” Tano’s lips twist into a bizarre grin. “Seventeen posses it very strongly, and three I had first mistaken for Jedi.”

“Is that all?”

She tips her head sideways. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Theliva prods. “We do not tolerate unanswered questions, Tano.”

“I know.”

“And…?”

Tano leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees without moving her hands from her head. “And that’s all I have to say to you., _Admiral_ ”

Theliva’s brows shoot up into his hairline. “Excuse me?”

She stares at him, as if reaching into his soul and reading through the library of his memory. And perhaps she is, Theliva panics.

His comlink chirps, and without breaking eye contact with Tano, he answers it. “Theliva.”

 _“Sir, Admiral Idelu'cagi reports that vi’ll be arriving along the boarder of Lesser Space within the hour and requests that a secure channel be established between the_ Lighthope, Vigilant, _and the_ Ruthless _. Your orders, Sir?”_

Theliva draws a breath. That was quick… “Inform vir that the channel with be launched from the _Lighthope_ in twenty minutes, Lieutenant. Thank you.” Then, pocketing the device, he adds in Basic, “You still haven’t answered my question.” 

“You did not ask one, Admiral,” Tano quips. “I have already told you what I intend to tell. The rest you will know on your own time.”

Theliva leans back in his chair. She’s pushing his buttons and it’s dangerously close to working. “That isn’t how this works, Tano.”

She snorts, amused and intolerant of any more chatter. “ _Good day, Admiral Mitth’eli’vant_.”

~*~

Nine long, painful hours and they still haven’t wrapped up the preliminary debates of the day. Nine hours and Thrass has had to snatch the belts of three Kivu Syndics to keep them from vaulting over their tables at the throats of those daring to appose them more times than he can count. Nine hours and Formbi hasn’t uttered a peep, a rare and deeply concerning first for the man. Nine hours, Thrass muses bitterly, and they are no closer to deciding the fates of their human half-citizens.

 _Refugees_ , Thrass amends his thought, _they are not citizens yet_.

The concept alone makes his blood boil, and the ceaseless, petty bickering around him only serves to fuel that rage. They think of nothing but bloodlines (their society hasn’t meddled with such a trivial thing in _millennia_ ), political standing (the ruling families change every few generations anyways), and utterly close-minded personal biases, never once stopping to consider the _benefits_ of allowing the humans citizenship based on merit. Thrass himself had made the argument -using himself as reference- no less than three times since the start of the proceedings. He, the blood of a then-obscure colonial family, now standing as the Patriarch of the Fourth Ruling House. And yet it slipped right through the grasp of their feeble logic.

An insult is thrown in the general direction of a Kivu Syndic and Thrass winces. They’re nothing if not a mouthy family, he noted long ago, very much like the Chaf, if one was to take away the self-righteous sense of superiority they all seem to have from birth. From her place, he watches as Chaf'ees'aklaio rises to defend the small Syndic, voice sharp and laced with contempt. He knows she hates politics, but from what he’d heard, Feesa had decided to take matters into her own hands roughly a month ago.

“How dare you, Syndic? How dare you stand there and allow this to happen?” Feesa’s voice is cold, calculative. She is not one to let emotion dictate her actions, Thrass knows, but surely it will only be a matter of time before that flies out the window. “Is not your House responsible for education? And as it is such, how dare you preach to close-minded stagnancy? Syndics, I appeal to you and your natures to protect our people’s ways of life, to our cultures and norms; Hear our cries! How often in our history have we sided with outsiders who have taken us in as their own without question? How many cultures have come into our own? Are these humans not the same? There is a darkness on the edge of our boarders, creeping ever closer from all sides and these _people_ know how to defeat it!

“We -all of us- sit here in our comfort and safety while countless of our brothers and sisters and cousins and distants sacrifice themselves to protect us, blind to the plights and plagues we could eradicate if we took a single moment to put aside the conflict of family loyalties and make the sacrifices our Admiralty has made- I beg you now to think of those you claim to serve, to protect. How often can you truthfully say that you do indeed serve them and not yourselves? As I speak, there is a human Admiral on the fringes of our very existence, his life risked time and time over for us and we sit here and claim to speak for him? While we sit here and dawdle and fight over whether or not he deserves to live?”

Thrass keeps a close eye on those representing House Sabosen. By all logic, they shouldn’t be the opposition, and yet here they stand, throwing a colorful volley at Feesa and an increasingly uncomfortable-looking Formbi.

“Your House has no right to demand that we think not of ourselves,” Speaker Nacsiala spits, jabbing a finger across the room at the Chaf. “Not while you coddle a human _pet_ as if he was blood. Your house is a shame upon the Ascendancy, as are all others who would harbor those filthy moactan teel.”

A hush falls over the gossiping Syndics and Speakers at his words. Thrass, for his part, can focus on nothing other than the rising heat in Formbi’s face and chest. The man does not get angry often, but now is as good of a time as any for him to start…

Feesa squares her jaw and shoulders, eyes ablaze with every ounce of rage Thrass feels in his blood. “Of all the hypocrisy that spreads rampant as plague within these chambers, Speaker, yours is what will turn your House inwards towards collapse. Look to the Clarr as example.” Her voice takes on a deadly edge, and Thrass wonders if her emotion has finally taken over. “You will fight this war, Speaker, but mark my words you will not win it.”

Nearest to the Sabosen, both the Speaker and second Syndic of the Ethindo family rise. “All those who stand with Syndic Chaf'ees'aklaio, who would support the motion to grant full citizenship to Irizi’kary’nfa, Chaf’brier’lyron, and Mitth’eli’vant,” the Speaker says evenly, every word commanding attention and respect. “As well as any who come hence who should pass the same trials and merits as any Chiss should, rise now, and make your beliefs known.”

Thrass knows that he is not the first to stand, but he is not alone when he does so.


	20. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 19 - The Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of time I spent scouring every source possible for any crumbs of Chiss military formations, tactics, and (this was the absolute worst) ship classifications and specs is absolutely asinine. Not to mention the zillions of battle plans i doodled on Dunkin Donuts napkins (to my sergeant's utter dismay). 
> 
> I have too many ideas so this is now a series instead of a standalone and yes I'm 100% that chiss and will be leaving this in an inconvenient place

_ It is said that a warrior meets death a great many times before he dies, and that with each meeting the warrior is reborn in a new light of understanding and wisdom. Thus, death is not to be feared, but rather celebrated as the completion of one’s journey through life. Memories are what legacies are built upon and the legacy of a warrior is built with many of all connotations and meanings. The unfortunate side effect of this truth is that one must heed constant caution and mindfulness of their actions, lest their legacy be recalled as one of misery and grief._

“Entering Sector G-7, Admiral. The drop will put us at the edge of the Ilum-Asar system.”

Ainija watches Yissa sip at her morning caf as the vessel renters realspace. The admiral nods in silent acknowledgment of the drop, eyes drifting in and out of focus over the rim of her travel cup. Asar and her orbiting worlds and moons make for a brilliant spectacle, all pale blue and white dots against a magnificent nebula visible even from so far away. Ainija will never tire of the views offered by her service, and for all her years, she’s been blessed to never truly see the same ones more than twice.

Hammerly lowers the cup from her lips, still cradling it close to her chest, and rolls her shoulders a bit, something Ainija has taken to mean she is finally at ease, though her eyes do not leave the viewport. “What do you see, Commodore?”

Of course it would come to this, Ainija muses, squinting a little. She’d read up on the system, only to find little of real interest in its history. What their records lacked in quantity, however, they more than made up for in quality, and Ainija had found a lengthy file on the fifth planet in the system. _And_ why Grand Admiral Sloane had taken such an interest in it.

The picture painted before her eyes is one that perfectly matches the reports. A herd of Star Destroyers of various classes, flight cruisers, freighters, transports, all of it. They’re clustered in the very farthest reaches of the human eye around Ilum and her moons, some scattered about in the fringes of the system. Ainija has no doubt that they passed a great deal more while still in hyperspace, the entire sector no doubt under blockade. “This can’t possibly be the route taken by Nightshrike’s ship,” Ainija says sourly. “Admiral Sloane’s fleets would’ve taken them out the second they crossed into the sector.”

“Perhaps. But we already discussed this.” Yissa lifts the cup again and takes a long drink, tipping her head back until it’s drained. Ainija swallows harshly, desperately trying to stomp down any rising thoughts that could take her focus away from duty.

Ainija nods carefully, retuning her gaze to the dwarf star. “Your plan is to take reinforcements, then?”

“It’s long since been time for the Empire to show its true hand and make our presence known across the galaxy -known and unknown alike.” She gestures vaguely to the star system. “And here is where we will start.”

Just as Ainija is about to comment, warning bells go off in the back of her head, followed shortly by the wailing of a proximity alarm from the other side of the bridge. Faster than her eyes can focus, Hammerly has shoved the travel cup into Ainija’s hands and turned on her heel to investigate.

“Report, Captain Daown.”

The man looks over his shoulder at them both, face riddled with confusion and panic. “Three unknown vessels have just dropped out of hyperspace, Admiral. Three points southwest standard.”

Ainija passes the cup off to some unsuspecting stormtrooper and calls up the sector maps at the holotable, keying in the reported position of the incoming vessels.

“Tell me everything you can about them, Captain,” Hammerly snaps. “Armament, life forms, possible trajectories.” The tone sends a chill down Ainija’s spine. It’s not a tone she uses often, and it’s only ever preceded a sharper, more authoritative voice that slips into ice and stone. However the situation unfolds, there is no doubt that the Admiral is preparing herself for battle.

“I read two life forms per craft, Admrial,” Daown says. “Minimal armaments, most likely scout ships.”

“Or pirates,” Hammerly says under her breath. She eyes the maps for a moment before turning to the other side of the walkway. “Lieutenant Attaarr, destroy them all.”

“Admiral! They’re breaking formation!”

Hammerly hisses a colorful Toydarian curse though clenched teeth. “Attaarr, lock onto them and _blow them out of the karking sky_! I will _not_ have this mission jeopardized!”

Ainija, from her place by the holotable, can see the Lieutenant’s hands scrambling across her controls. “I can’t get a lock on them!”

“Then scramble Blade Squadron!”

A flurry of activity follows as the ensign next to Attaarr shouts into his comm, relaying the orders. A second later, three dotted red lines appear across the starcharts over the holotable -routes to the unknown vessels’ probable departure points. Ainija squints at them, each one leading to the abyss of the deepest parts of the Unknown Regions. No craft _that_ small could possibly travel so deep into space alone...

“Blade Squadron deployed, Admiral!”

Ainija turns just in time to watch the beginnings of the tooka-fight between crafts. A fight that lasts less then three moments before the unknown craft prevail.

“Are we blind?!” Hammerly shouts, “I want those sithspitting bastards _gone_!”

“Target one of three locked on!”

“Fire!”

In a blaze of green, the first craft is obliterated not far from the main viewport, bathing the walls and crew in reds and yellows for the briefest of moments. Silently, Ainija cheers the small victory. 

“Target two of three locked on!”

Hammerly gives the order again, a small, triumphant grin creeping onto her lips. The grin does not rest in her eyes, however. There, behind the deep amber, all Ainija can see is doubt and worry and remorse. Blood had been spilled. Had she waited only a moment longer for Attaarr to establish the lock... Ainija shoves the thoughts aside. There’s no time for such things now.

“Target three of three locked on!”

Another flash, and the bridge erupts in cheers.

Except for the Admiral and Commodore. “You don’t believe that was the end of it, do you?” Hammerly asks in a low voice.

Ainija shakes her head, tracing her middle and index fingers along the dotted lines. “These are the most probably trajectories of the craft. All of them disappear into the Abysses, too far away from any known systems to have made it this far into space on their own.”

Hammerly lifts a brow, considering the implications. “If they truly were scouting vessels,” Ainija continues, “then I believe it would be in our best interest to alert Admiral Sloane and ready the remainder of the fleet for conflict.”

“You assume a great deal, Commodore,” Hammerly says flatly. “Though, that is an astute observation. Send a forensics team to the wreckages. Let’s see what we can learn about our friends.”

Ainija nods, jaw set firmly. “Yes, Sir.”

~*~

“Admiral.”

Theliva looks up from his console. The usually unshakable Remowa’s voice is filled to the brim with an apprehension the spills into his eyes. Nevertheless, whatever he has to say is likely important. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Status update from the _Ruthless_ incoming,” he says, clearly forcing his voice to even out. “Admiral Idelu’cagi sent three scouts into what is known as Sector G-7 by the starcharts supplied by Navigator Bridger, the Ilum-Asar system.” Remowa pulls his lower lip between his teeth, sucking in a breath. “All hands were lost before they could report findings.”

Theliva’s stomach drops. _That hadn’t been part of the plans_. He pinches his eyes shut against the pale green light of the console, wetting his lips as he draws in a long, counted breath through his nose. Whether or not their sacrifice is necessary remains to be seen, though using it to his advantage make shim nauseous. This isn’t like war against the Grysk or any other foes he has been thrown at during his service. “Order the _Ruthless_ to withdraw from the sector and pull back to Sector F-8, South by southeast common.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he can feel the icy fire of Zicher’s glare on his skull. “Do you have an objection, Commander?”

“Are you daft?” Zicher hisses quietly, but enough for him, and possibly half the bridge, to hear. “That would lead the moactan teel right to us!”

“Precisely.” He lifts a challenging brow. “The Empire has committed an act of war upon the Ascendancy. Unintentional or otherwise, we are now permitted to act accordingly.”

Zicher slams her fist against the edge of her console. “You _dare_ use their lives as pawns?”

“I did not order the recon mission,” Theliva fires back, “What I _am_ ordering is for Idelu’cagi to pull back within Ascendancy borders. Should the Empire feel the need to pursue the _Ruthless_ , we will be waiting alongside the _Vigilant_ and an armada of fully armed and ready warships. One Imperial vessel is no match for the Ascendancy. Lieutenant Remowa, _send the orders!_ ”

“Admiral-!”

“Yes sir, Admiral.”

Theliva keys open the shipwide PA channel, and without breaking eye contact with Zicher, he speaks with every ounce of authority and confidence he can muster. “This is Admiral Mitth’eli’vant to all personal. We have received confirmation that three reconnaissance vessels under command of Fleet Admiral Idelu’cagi have been attacked and destroyed by a political faction known in Lesser Space as the Imperial Remnant. These vessels and their crew were killed in cold blood in order to gain access to the refugees aboard both this vessel and the _Vigilant_ , under temporary command of Commodore Imoth'easawo. As of this moment, by Ascendancy Law of Entanglement, we are at war with the Imperial Remnant of Lesser Space. All non-commissioned crew are to return to quarters and review their stations’ combat directives. All battle crew, report to stations under standing order 96 to receive further instructions. May Warrior’s Fortune favor us all.”

When the channel is closed and Theliva’s hand is back at his side, Zicher’s withering glare has not faltered, face still twisted in a nearly-treasonous sneer. Before she can speak again, his attention is already back to Remowa. “Lieutenant, inform Commodore Imoth'easawo that I’m sending my personal guards to collect Medical Cadet Mitth’un’hee from the _Vigilant_ so that she is remands to my custody. Commander,” he turns to Zicher, all formalities and politics and thinly veiled threats. “Can I trust that you will follow orders as they are given?”

There is a moment silence, save for Remowa’s chatter in the background, where stares are locked and small muscles in faces tense and relax. Then finally, Zicher snaps to attention. “On my honor, for the good of the Ascendancy, I will follow you, Admiral Mitth’eli’vant.”

Theliva lowers his head in acknowledgment and respect, fist over his heart. “I accept your loyalty, Commander Irizi’che’ri. And for this moment, you have the Bridge. Admiral Tro’owmis needs to be informed if the Ascendancy now prepares for war.”

~*~

Anyone who had been foolish enough to hope for a quiet spell after the passing of the Allied Citizenship Act was undoubtedly eating their wishes for firstmeal after the alarm bells had been rung by the Council of Admirals at all hours of the Csillian night. Six hours was all it had taken for every single Matriarch, Patriarch, Patriel, and Speaker to convene within the grand Cupola, all strangely silent as if the threats had personally stolen their abilities to form words. It is not long before they’re seated all right and proper, with legs bouncing under tables and fidgeting fingers toying with styluses or rings, eyes assessing the room with great paranoia. Many of the Speakers, Formbi notes sourly, are young enough to be his children, and thus have not been in service during any notable conflicts, let alone full-scale threats of war. He does remember a fair deal of the Warm Ones and how they handle conflict from oh-so long ago, it seems, and with any luck and fortune at all, their methods and psyche haven’t changed much in those years.

The Aristocra bites the inside of his lip, a heaviness around his heart that he cannot ever remember feeling to such an extreme that it threatens to suffocate him. Perhaps it is the weight of the crystalline white band around his finger that marks his bonding, perhaps it is the knowledge of his nieces and nephews and great nieces and nephews currently serving aboard any of the warships that are undoubtedly about to be deployed, who may not return. Perhaps it is the collective weight felt by all those in the cupola who have children and loved ones who have dedicated their lives and may very well be sacrificing them in the coming weeks. Formbi cannot fully recall the last time he has seen the chamber so thick with dread. It had not even been this bad when the Nikardun decided it was a good idea to poke at the Ascendancy. Perhaps it is because now a direct threat has been issued against the Navigators. How many parents in the room have had their children pulled from their arms, never to know their fates, if they lived or died, if they might one day walk into a shop or room and be standing next to their child and never even know it? The greatest gift to the Ascendancy, their deepest and most cherished secret… and now a race of ruthless invaders, conquerors even, have declared war.

Across the cupola, Formbi catches the eye of the Mitth Patriarch, nestled almost akin to a frightened bird against his wife’s side. Mitth’ilv’onei looks equally in distress- perhaps it is because her own niece is aboard one of the currently deployed vessels. Or perhaps the plight of nature over their shipyards? Thrass’s eyes, for only a single heartbeat, flash with resolve. In turn, Formbi offers a low bow of his head, a display of mutual respect in the moment. They both have everything to lose in this war, Formbi knows, and he will do everything in his power to see that it is not lost.

~*~

Perhaps against his better judgement, Theliva searches for the com number to the ambassador’s suite Rawn has been moved to aboard the _Vigilan_ t. With any luck at all, the Mandalorian won’t be present when ( _if_ ) Rawn answers. Theliva isn’t sure if he could handle seeing that. Not now, not with everything else on his mind.

Not if this is the last time he’ll have the chance to talk to him…

The holo chimes only twice -during which time Theliva seriously considers chickening out- before-

He can’t do it. The moment Raw’nuruodo’s face appears, Theliva loses his nerve and ends the call, face buried in his hands. He can’t, in his right mind, say anything he wants to. Not when the man’s husband is undoubtedly sitting right within earshot with their _kid_. In an instant, the all-consuming emptiness takes over and Theliva clenches his jaw to keep from crying. He’s due on the bridge soon, and human emotions are impossible to conceal from Chiss. All he needs to be displaying now is confidence, surety, resolve. He can’t just march into conflict after crying over someone he lost his chance with _a decade ago._

Besides, Zicher would never let him hear the end of it.

Offers, of course, had been made by daring few who had decided that they simple did not care about formal courtship traditions and the like. Hell, there had been a few where Thrass has all but smack him upside the head for not accepting. Theliva had tried, he really had, with one man. He wasn’t a politician or member of any influential family, just someone he’d met by happenstance one day while out celebrating Ar’alani and Karyn’s bonding. He’d been a bartender, all lopsided smiles and manners. They saw each other again a week later at the market, this time with Thunhe in tow.

Nothing escapes clairvoyant children, apparently.

They’d lasted three years, but in their final months, Theliva _spiraled_. Even now, he can’t place what happened to him, to either of them, only that he’d gone to bed with him one night and the next he was gone.

Thrass said he was still holding on to Thrawn, despite the icebed carved for him alongside their ancestors. How many weeks after had Theliva gone to bed, still leaving that extra space for Sivon? Ignored the extra pillow and woken up to think he was simple up earlier again, not realizing that he was utterly alone? For a long time, Theliva placed the blame solely on himself, and maybe he’d been right.

A chime echoes across the walls of his office and Theliva pulls himself together as best as he can before allowing the hatch to open. Instantly, a relieved smile pulls this cheeks as Thunhe shuffles in. The crisp silver and pale blue uniform of a ship’s medic suit her well, he thinks, and a sweeping wave of pride hits him.

“I’m supposed to tell you that Auntie Ara’s fever broke last night and that she’ll be allowed to leave the medicenter in two days,” Thunhe reports in a small voice, happily leaning into the hug Theliva offered.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully, kiddo,” Theliva says quietly. “The Mandalorian and the Jedi are on their way over from the _Vigilant_ with the little kid. If it comes down to a fight, you’re to take them to the shelter in the medicenter. That kid is a Sky-Walker, and valuable enough to the Empire that they’ll go to extremes to get him back.”

Thunhe’s face grows dark as she perches on the edge of his desk. “It will come to bloodshed, there is no doubt now.”

“I know.” Theliva looks down at his boots, then up at the grim expression in his daughter’s eyes. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

She shrugs sadly, mouth twisting into a frown. “There is no promise that can be made now that can be kept.”

~*~

Seeing his bridge crew in their combat uniforms, charrics strapped to hips, thighs, and backs, is almost enough to set Theliva on edge. Hair is pulled out of faces in tight tails and braids, respirators are slung around necks, and every motion screams coiled muscle and nerve. The leather of his gloves squeaks when he cracks his knuckles, the sound oddly misplaced and comforting all at the same time. Beside him, at her own console, Zicher stands tall and with drawn shoulders. Standard uniforms do little to accentuate the physical prowess of the Chiss body, but the clingy nature of combat gear offers a rather intimidating view. Should they be forced to board any Imperial vessels, surely the humans will find it in their best interests to simply surrender.

Theliva draws in a measured breath before speaking. “All stations, report status.”

The next minutes are a chorus of acknowledgments and “all systems clear!” from each console and Ar’alani rolls her shoulders. Wearing this uniform in particular outside of an interrogation setting is all but foreign to her now. Surely, from his place with the Navigator, Rawn must feel equally strange. She can’t recall the last time he’s been stuck in Chiss armor.

“Sovereign, I’m reading three, no, seven-“ Captain Tevesucsa tinkers with the console a moment. “-nine masses inbound.”

Ar’alani flexes her fingers at her sides. “All stations beat to quarters!”

“Sir!” Lieutenant Vutonmi calls over his shoulder, “The _Vigilant_ is moving into position north by northeast at bearing .4501.”

“Acknowledged, Lieutenant,” Theliva says evenly. “Remowa? Has Sovereign Ar’alani called for battle stations?”

Remowa’s braid whips around his head when he turns. “Yes sir. Running status line reports nine inbound craft, all traveling just sub-light around the Csaa’ch’ae’eo Nova. The _Vigilant_ estimates less than three minutes before they enter the south-standard Chasdemonus Route.”

A dark grin plays at the corners of Theliva’s lips. “Then lets make those minutes count.” He keys open a channel from his console. “Commander Wodashu, begin preflight on Squadrons eight through sixteen, be ready for deployment on my command.”

At her station, Zicher’s eyes dart across the holoprojection of the sector, keeping close tabs on the rapidly approaching cluster of red dots just past Yashuvhu. “Eighty-seven seconds, Sir.”

Ar’alani’s eyes narrow at the sensory array as Tevesucsa’s hands dance across the screens. “Admiral, all nine craft projected to be within visual range in thirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…”

Her bridge crew is a perfectly oiled machine, one she takes no small amount of pride in. Her Navigator, especially. Ne’venha sits calmly despite the universe around her on the verge of crumbling. Rawn’s hands rest on the back her chair, ready to either assist or take over at a moment’s notice. In a corner, far behind them all, a medical team is on standby for the little girl who can be no older than ten, and Ar’alani takes the briefest of seconds to recall her time as interim Caregiver to Zicher when she was still a full-fledged Sky-Walker. Now, she thinks fondly, the woman is up for promotion to flag rank. The recollection brings a small smile to her face and the courage she needs to survive.

“..nine…eight…”

She nods once to her first officer, then turns to the rest of the crew. “May Warrior’s Fortune favor us all.”

“…two…”

The Togruta sits at the pilot’s side, looking all too large for the console. Perhaps in another time and place, it might have been amusing, but not now. Now, Theliva is tensed and coiled and ready for whatever the universe decides to throw at him. The Mandalorian is nearby, his stature alone bringing a strange sense of security. Perhaps it’s just the idea there’s another nonchiss on the bridge with him. Married to Rawn or not, he’ll be a useful ally in direct combat. The child, Theliva assured him _repeatedly_ , is safe with Thunhe in the medical bay with Bridger, both armed to the teeth and willing to lay down their lives to protect the child.

“Nine Imperial vessels reentering realspace…now!” Vutonmi calls over his shoulder.

“Raise all electrostatic barriers to 60 percent,” Theliva says evenly. “Prep salvoes one and two. Do not engage.”

“Aye, Admiral!”

“Sovereign, Captain Araellahr reports that _The_ _Crahsystora_ and _Dauntless_ will arrive at set coordinates within five minutes.”

Ar’alanin nods. “Very goo-“

“Alien flagship charging ventral cannons!”

She keys open the ship wide channel from her console, “All personal, brace for impact!”

There is no warning, only a flash of brilliant green before the _Lighthope_ shudders violently, throwing captain and crew alike to the side. Most grip their consoles and chairs, desperate to stay upright. Others tumble helplessly.

Theliva, for his part, has long since learned to brace his stance against quaking vessels. “Raise barriers to full power and fire salvos three and four! Target escort vessels!”

Another violent lurch threatens the crew’s balance once again and Theliva is thrown to the ground, shoulder coming into contact with something very hard. Burst after burst of green light flashes across the viewport, tremor after tremor shaking the floor.

“Admiral! The Imperial flagship has deployed swarming fighters!”

“The _Vigilant_ just took a critical hit!” Zicher yelps as her balance wavers, but does not fall.

Theliva swears under his breath, eyes flickering between the maps projected over his console and the viewport.

Vutonmi twists in his chair, eyes wide. “Admiral, seven more cruisers dropping out of hyperspace, aft to the Imperial’s flagshi-!” A flash of green and red and lights and consoles across the bridge flicker and spark. “Damage to long-distance sensor arrays, Admiral!”

Ar’alani does not take swearing lightly, and the explosions on her bridge merits an impressive profanity. The screams of her crew fill her ears, ringing with agony and fear. A cursory glance shows nothing but sparks and fire, a few of the crew now bloody and dazed. The back of Rawn’s uniform is spattered with blood, whether his own or that of the pilot, she doesn’t know. He’d shielded the Navigator well enough, though the girl is likely to be too terrified to perform her duty. Guilt tries to claw it’s way up her spine, but she kicked it away. Now is not the time to lose focus.

“Damage report!”

Imoth’easawo taps furiously at her console, nose gushing blood from where her face had hit the edge of the console. “Heavy damage to salvos seven and nine, Sovereign, and the outermost barrier is inoperable.”

Again, Ar’alani swears under her breath. Whatever Rawn and his strays have smuggled into their space must be impossibly valuable for the Imperials to come at them so hard.

Sawuto brings her fist down onto her console, a string of profanity rolling off her tongue. “Short-range sensors have been knocked out, Sovereign! We’re flying blind!”

The proximity alarm shrieks amid the chaos of orders and updates being shouted, and Ar’alani feels her ship shift position at the last possible second before an Imperial vessel comes at them from the side. How had it not shown up on their sense-

Ar’alani’s eyes dart across the bridge and at the myriad of green and red and purple fire outside the viewport, mind racing. The human’s have a much _, much_ different set of tactics than most in the Chaos, and certainly are more technologically advanced. They’re a fair match for the Chiss, she thinks bitterly, and a very real threat… “Rawn, take over navigation and helm!”

He looks at her, utterly stunned, but complies, ordering the girl’s Caregiver to take an escort back to the Sky-Walker’s shelter. She watches his shoulders rise and fall with measured breaths, and it dawns on her that this may very well be the first time an _adult_ Chiss has ever been in total control of a ship’s navigation. Maybe she should have tested his skill on something smaller, a clawcraft or patrol shuttle. Not a Nightdragon… But he’d insisted, based on some… Rawn had claimed he’d seen it in a dream, and Ar’alani hadn’t been in a place to argue or question. Her gut told her to trust him.

And that trust is the last thing in Ar’alani’s heart before her world goes dark.

~*~

The picture painted before him, standing beside the _Sarvchii_ ’s Captain, is one of a loosing battle. In the distance, two of the three visible Nightdragon’s are in pieces, scattered across the battlefield as both Chiss and Imperial swarm-craft buzz about between a rainbow salvo and cannon fire. Formbi isn’t sure what crawled under his skin and pushed him onto the dreadnaught’s bridge, but despite the regret, it felt _necessary_. He hears the captain stiffly short some order that makes no sense to civilian ears, but Formbi assumes they’re moving into attack formation with the _Coperoi_ , skirting around behind the Imperials. They have a herd mentality, apparently, as all of their vessels are in a tight little puddle. To the dreadnoughts, they’re k’oi fish in a barrel.

Formbi bites the inside of his cheek as the vessel picks up speed on her collision course, then stumbles a little when the speed suddenly drops as they open fire. One by one, with upwards of a dozen vessels all firing at once, the Imperial vessels combust in flames and metal shards. Another swarm of nearly a hundred clawcraft shoot like charric-fire from the hull of the _Coperoi_ and a small glint of hope dares plant itself in Formbi’s eyes. They may yet win the day…

There is a cracking of static over the ship’s speakers, and for a moment he braces for a mayday call.

No such thing comes.

Instead, a woman’s voice rattles through the bridge, steady and speaking a tongue Formbi can only hope to fully grasp. He catches perhaps every third word, enough to piece together the message in context.

The Imperials demand surrender, the sacrifice of the alleged Navigator sheltered aboard one of the Nightdragons, and they’re sending boarding teams to each one to search for their prize.

Anger, inexplicably, rises in his blood and Formbi casts a demanding glare at the captain, brow ticked up and eyes flashing as bright as plasma. The captain nods in understanding, then fires off more orders into his com unit.

A grim look settles across the man’s face. The gravity of the situation does not appear to escape him. “Gold team, you’re clear to begin evacuation of the _Vigilant_ and _Lighthope.”_ Then, turning to Formbi, he adds. “Aristocra, I want you to go with Navigator Imowe’la and Caregiver Ctoanami to the shelter. At this distance, we risk boarding, and I don’t need to explain to anyone why-“

“I’m staying right here, Captain.” Formbi holds up a silencing hand. “I suggest you fire upon the flagship, then go after the underlings.”

“All due respect, but politics do not-“

“Did I stutter?” His voice raises as he jerks his arm towards the viewport. “Fight your battles, Captain, but as I have no authority over you, you have none over me! But I have every right as an observer aboard my own family’s ship to make observations! Look at your canvas, Captain. _That_ utter monstrosity is their command vessel. Trace the transmission that just jammed our communications and tell me it came from any other vessel but that one.”

The captain doesn’t even _blink_.

“Do it!”

Of all the displays of pyrotechnics Chaf’orm’bintrano has seen in his years, none have been brighter or more violent than the sight of the human command vessel’s annihilation, nor has anything brought him such relief…

Or such heartbreak.


	21. Epilogue - At What Cost?

A proper memorial for those who fell at the Battle of Rhigar could not be held for three months, when finally those who had survived their commands were released from medical care. But when the time came, all are present and standing as equals, despite any feud happening within the walls of politics.

Cool metal fingers lace with Zikerynfa’s warm flesh as Ar’alani leans into the woman for any support she can find, still a little unsteady on her new limb. It takes a great deal of willpower not to openly break down at the sight of Admiral Eli’vant pressing a gloved hand to the icebed of the Ufsa cadet who had apparently taken her last breaths at the wrong end of a human firearm while trying to protect his daughter as she escaped with the child. Ar’alani herself has already left her own marks of respect at the bed of her first officer, who had fallen so violently that there was no body left to bury. She’s lost count of the beds she’s visited since the moon first rose, each breaking her heart more than the last. The last number she could remember was close to four thousand, and there had been a great many more after. Even more names had been etched into memorials of the souls unaccounted for in the end. Countless had been taken to both military and civilian hospitals, and many still, after three months, had yet to wake from comas or be released from care. Too many had died in those hospitals -more names, more beds. Ar’alani has fought many battles and wars, but never has she seen a single day take so many lives. And there is no telling how many humans lost their lives at her and her kinsmen’s hands.

A few feet to her left, Rawn stands over the bed of a Kivu officer, no doubt speaking silent prayers to the young soul as Thrass lingers nearby with his hands tucked politely within the folds of his silver robes. Something catches his eyes, Ar’alani notes, and he squeezes his brother’s shoulder once before tracking through the snow to his destination. Absently, Ar’alani wonders if the little robes he’d had made for the Mandalorian’s child fit the tiny creature properly.

The reunion of the Mitth brothers had been a somber one, filled with the tears and shouting voices of both parties once Rawn regained control of his voice. Now they seemed to communicate almost wordlessly at most times, often needing only a single glance or ticking of a brow to convey thoughts. A form of communication, Zikerynfa explained once, that is unique to and understood only by siblings. Ar’alani in turn explained that, while she could never hope to understand them fully, could make sense of that sort of nonverbal communication. She and Rawn have had many a silent battle in their days.

Once she’d regained consciousness and coherence both, Ar’alani made a point of keeping up on news headlines and the near live-stream messages from Thrass regarding the fate of the Human who called herself “Rossi”. According to her conversation that morning with the Mitth Patriarch, she’d been labeled the sole perpetrator of the conflict and the cause for an estimated fifty-thousand deaths on both sides. A Chiss might have been exiled, never to return to the Chaos again and likely die within the first few years. To exile the human would only be sending information right back to enemy hands, and the war was not yet won. From what Ar’alani understood, her fate would be death.

Fitting, a dark part of her mind thinks with an alarming sort of cheer.

Her death would be vindication and justice for those who had lost their lives because of her.

Zikarynfa’s arm slips around her waist and she gives her hip a gentle squeeze. Normally the action would be done to her hand. Now, Ar’alani would never know it happened. Such is a loss that, while greatly preferable to death, is almost harder to accept. She’d once worn her bonding cuff on that arm, and lost the breathtaking metalwork with the limb. And yet she’d learned a lesson about human persistence. While she’d been unconscious, a myriad of organic swirls and lines meshed with their marriage vows (in Cheunh script, of course) had been etched into the fabricated limb. All Zikarynfa’s doing, by what Ar’alani had been told.

Humans..

The thoughts rest on the tip of a ledge, her heart aching for the woman responsible for the etchings. Zikarynfa had eventually learned who had commanded the Human flagship until it met its fate. In years long since passed, the two had been friends and served under Rawn when he had been their admiral. And though her loyalties had since fallen to the Ascendancy, Ar’alani can’t help but wonder what darkness had been eating away at the edges of the human’s existence in the past months. Although, quite frankly, she’s almost to scared to know.

Another gentle squeeze pulls her from her thoughts, and deep brown meets dull red. “It’s almost dawn…” Zikarynfa mumbles. “We’ll need to go soon.”

They’re to appear in court in three days time to begin hearings in regard to Raw’nuruodo’s exile. They’ll need their rest, and Ar’alani still can’t quite pick up anything smaller than a large cup without dropping it, and there’s no telling how many documents she’ll need to sign.

~*~

_**The saga continues in** _

**Inbound Flight: Rising Order**


End file.
